The Wolfman Read Online Free PDF Page B

impossible to get a read.When his father nodded to himself, Lawrence said, “What? . . .”
    “I’ve often wondered what you’d look like.”
    “I doubt that.”
    “It’s quite true.” Sir John wore a heavy robe trimmed with leopard fur. His hair and beard were snow white but his blue eyes were youthful and charged with vitality. His personal energy was completely at odds with the rundown state of the grounds; however, his cool smile was in perfect harmony with the chilly and cheerless house. “Yes,” he said more to himself than to his son, “I’ve often wondered . . .”
    Lawrence didn’t know how to respond to that, and didn’t want to try. Instead he said, “You seem well.”
    Shutters dropped behind Sir John’s eyes. “Do I?” He paused. “You come here for your brother, then?”
    “Of course.”
    “Of course,” echoed Sir John.
    “Has there been any word?”
    Sir John turned away without answering. He crossed the hall and entered his study. After a moment’s hesitation Lawrence followed.
    The study was a man’s place, with many sofas and chairs and bookshelves crammed with volumes in a dozen languages. Tables were scattered about, some bearing bottles of wine and brandy, others covered with maps, and one with an open book on astronomy. Tall windows of thick leaded glass let in filtered light, which was warmed and colored by the glow from a thick knot of logs in the fireplace. Pistols, swords and weapons of ancient design were mounted on the walls or set in cases of museum quality. But as much as it was a man’s room it was also a predator’s room, with the heads of a score of animals—rhinoceroses, lions,bears—gazing fatalistically into the chamber, tiger and leopard skins on the walls, and a plaque on which were mounted claws and teeth from ten species of great hunting cats.
    Lawrence lingered in the doorway, his attention not drawn by the violent majesty of the décor but by his father’s odd behavior. It was true that Lawrence had not seen his father in many years, but a chance meeting of this kind should have provoked some flicker of humanity. Instead, Sir John seemed distracted, his attention drawn inward instead of outward to his son’s presence.
    Lawrence said, “Miss Conliffe learned that my company was in London. I was going to invite you and Ben. . . .”
    “I see,” said Sir John, stopping by a globe and idly tracing a line of latitude.
    “I was going to send word to you,” said Lawrence. “To invite you to a performance. You and Ben. . . .”
    But his voice trailed away as Sir John turned to face him. The look on his father’s features was oddly twisted as if he was in physical pain.
    “Well,” said Sir John quietly. “A fine idea. Some years too late, but a fine idea.” He was trying to sound offhand, but Lawrence could tell that something was wrong and his father’s next words drove home that suspicion with terrible force. “Unfortunately your brother’s body was found in a ditch by the priory road yesterday morning.”
    The words hit Lawrence like fists. He staggered back against the door frame.
    “Good God! Father . . .
what happened?!
”
    Sir John’s eyes went cold, his conflict resolved into an icy control that Lawrence remembered from allthose years ago. Sir John clasped his hands behind his back and stood ramrod stiff. If he had any compassion for what his words had just done to his son, not one flicker of it showed on his stern face.
    “I assume you have something to wear to the funeral.”
    Lawrence had no words. There was a soft sound behind him, a discreet clearing of the throat, and he turned to see a tall Sikh in a deep blue turban, loose jacket and trousers.
    “Sir John, I heard Samson, is . . .” The Sikh stopped talking as he realized that the man in the doorway was not the master of the house. His eyes snapped wide and he smiled in delight. “Master Lawrence!”
    “Singh!” cried Lawrence as he clapped the other man on the