There were many things that were said of the Sheriff of Harester, for either good or ill. He was a man of certainty both of mind and action, a character to cultivate both the staunchest and unquestioning of admirers and the most malevolent of detractors as a matter of natural course. He observed the world about him with care, digested its happenings in his own time and council, and upon ruminating to conclusion he moved with swiftness and decisiveness. In the happy way with which fate tends to round off such personalities as the Sheriff, his countenance was one to suggest every ounce of the sage wisdom and razor wit accredited by his adherents and every inch of wickedness attributed in equal measure by the opposition. A small, compact man with a face as grey and thin as was the neatly trimmed hair surmounting it, eyes sharper than thieve’s daggers, lithe and sinewy musculature clinging to brittle and aging bones like ancient laws which are still actively enforced, and an overall stature as diminutive as was his own rank as sheriff of a quiet county in a small land. Dressed in the conservative elegance that marked a man of position, self assurance, and ruthless efficiency, His Lordship Sir Edgar Brace, the Sheriff of Harester, arose in the dwindling sunset to address the Moot of Potham.

His words were short and to the point. A grave matter of both near and present danger faced the community of Potham. To right this circumstance required the orderly cooperation of the entire community and submission to the King’s lawful authority. There was to be no nonsense, no cocksure foolishness, and positively no backchat. With that, Doctor Ford was summoned to present before the assembly the Facts as Known.

Doctor Ford came to the table with a sheaf of mixed papers. It was with some awkwardness that he set them to order while attempting to manage a wayward pince-nez, and already a ripple of impatience bled through the crowd. The Sheriff quickly issued a sharp rebuke followed by a withering stare distributed unevenly across the crowd. The Sheriff was a man with a profound respect for the ponderous intractability of a mixed rural assembly, and it was his view that these sorts of things should be kept sealed with a tight lid at all times, rather like a jar of wasps.

Doctor Ford began again. Too quietly. He was commanded to speak up and not to dither. A thorough and clear summary of the events leading up to the present was required and time was pressing.

The good doctor steadied himself and began a third time, with as much volume and clarity as he could manage without becoming embarrassingly shrill.

The crowd settled to an impatient simmer as Doctor Ford began to painstakingly recount the events leading up to the tragic disappearance of Miss Watson. Thoroughness is a quality which is generally indispensable to the art of investigation, yet wholly intolerable to a public in righteous outrage at the twin wrongs of both heinous crime and abominable inconvenience. A violent kidnapping or gruesome murder is bad enough, but that it should add further horror to society by interfering with tea and upsetting breakfast…..well, the human spirit is capable of only so much endurance.

Mr. Barnstabrake was a man whose reverence for high position was equalled only by his desire to impress, but even the majestic presence in sum of two knights and the Sheriff himself was not sufficient to quell him from topping the burgeoning swell of impatience.

“Dash it all, Ford, half of all that we already know and the other half we couldn’t give tuppence about. Who cares if Miss Watson’s dress was pinkish in color….”

“It was rather more green, Squire Barnstabrake.”

“....green, pink, dash it all, we don’t care about rescuing the dashed dress!”

“I rather think it is of marked significance that the dress was rather attached to Miss Watson at the time of the abduction, and thus any observation of the dress would be rather a marked indication of Miss Watson’s present or past whereabouts.”

“Details! We can sort all that out later. We need action! We need….”

“Squire Barnstabrake, please permit Doctor Ford to proceed.”

“Eh? Oh, yes, right you are, M’lord Sheriff. Press on, Ford, but for pity’s sake don’t drivel.”

“Proceed, Doctor, and leave out no critical detail.”

Doctor Ford proceeded again, though perhaps in a bit more haste than before. Nevertheless, a strained quarter hour later he came upon his concluding remarks.

“....in light of these facts, and in the absence of any direct or indirect observation of Miss Watson since the night of June the 10th at about eleven o’clock, we are left with a number of possible avenues of investigation. Let us begin with the popular speculation…..”

“Popular speculation my left boot, we know who did it!”

“.....the popular speculation of the involvement of a notorious pirate recently escaped from the custody of the Admiralty and now believed to be at large in Dunster or the surrounding counties.”

“Do you identify this individual?”

“I do, M’lord Sheriff.”

“And how do you identify said individual?”

“I identify him as the fugitive known as George Abraham Wilkins of East Bellsport (presumed), otherwise known as Black Abraham, convicted of piracy, kidnapping, extortion, and other grievous offences, now at large after having escaped custody pending the execution of sentence.”

“And what evidence do you provide in support of your claim?”

“As principal evidence I provide this.”

“Do you identify this object?”

“I do.”

“What is the object.”

“It is of the form and shape of a conventional device of nautical instrumentation known as a belaying pin.”

“Under what circumstances was the object brought to your attention?”

“It was discovered at the scene the morning of Saturday the 11th inst.”

“And what is the relevance of this object?”

“The object is inscribed with the legend “Ardent Fancy”, the name of the last ship captained by Black Abraham, currently interred by the Admiralty.”

“And do you, Doctor Ford, believe it was Black Abraham who abducted Miss Watson?”

“I do not.”

An abrupt hush fell upon the assembly.

To that very moment the social consciousness of the entire community had been riveted upon the single notion of the dreaded pirate. The formality of the present proceeding had hitherto been merely an aggravating distraction to be hurried through as speedily as possible. Now, to the astonishment of all a hitch had appeared, and the public was spellbound.

“See? I said all along it was Kobalds!”

“Silence!”

The Sheriff’s rebuke of the shrill voice which had cheerfully arisen from the depths of stunned communal silence had to all appearances a most dramatically opposite effect to that which he doubtless intended. All at once the entire assembly erupted in a whirling babble of excited speculation or vociferous disbelief. It was some time before a tenuous order could be restored and Doctor Ford was called upon to explain his remarks.

“I most certainly can and will explain my assertion, M’lord Sheriff. Permit me now to do so.

First, there is the matter of motive. Why on earth would this pirate, Black Abraham, choose to abduct Miss Watson, so soon after his escape? Having nearly perished in the gibbet after his last attempt at such an escapade, why try again? With his ship still interred by the Admiralty, no less?”

“He could have acquired another vessel in the intervening months.”

“True, but why venture inland to engage in kidnapping? Why not merely return to piracy?

Second, there is the belaying pin. The art of engraving is something which is commonly associated with sailors in the mind of the public. However, more often than not this is in reference to the particular art of scrimshaw as practiced by whalers, who tend to have more time on their hands than the average sailor. I suppose another sailor might still have produced something like this in a moment of idleness, particularly if he were on a ship with a larger than average crew (such as a pirate). But why bother to engrave something like a belaying pin? It’s not as if it were a personal item or an object of any importance that one might be inclined to decorate it. And if one were to do so nonetheless, you’d think the man would have at least have selected an object which wasn’t totally inferior. This brings me to the pin itself. Note the roughness of it’s finish and the irregularity of its shape. It does not appear to have been expertly made, and it is so rough that one can hardly handle it without acquiring splinters. A tool such as this is used constantly, and must be smooth and non-injurious. Even the wood is of poor quality, spongy and pitted, like it was plucked from a refuse bin. Taking all these points together, my conclusion is that this object simply is not genuine.”

“A forgery then? But why make such a thing? To implicate Black Abraham and divert our attention from the real culprit?”

“Or it could be a product of idle fancy, created on a lark and only by happenstance been mislaid on the scene.”

“I find that highly unlikely. It seems far too extraordinary that such an apparently incriminating object should simply happen to be found at the scene. Do you have any further evidence to support your suggestion that it was not Black Abraham who committed this crime?”

“In point of fact, I have evidence which suggests to me that there has been no ‘crime’, precisely, at all. That Miss Watson was not in fact kidnaped.”

“What!”

“Indeed, and it grieves me profoundly as such, for if my suspicions are correct then Miss Watson’s fate would appear far more final.”

“What do you mean? Explain!”

“Indeed, M’lord, I believe that Miss Watson and Mr. Barnstabrake were in fact attacked by wolves, and Miss Watson….was removed.”

“Dragged off you say?”

“I did not wish to put it so.”

“What evidence do you have?”

“It is well known that Potham and indeed perhaps the whole of the county is experiencing a resurgence of wolves. Ten years ago I would have said they were extinct in this part of the nation, or at least nearly so, but recent attacks and sightings have confirmed that they most definitely are not. Indeed, these wolves appear to be larger and bolder than any I’ve ever heard of. And I believe it was a pack of them which attacked on that night and carried off Miss Watson.”

“But nothing was heard. No howls, no cries.”

“Indeed you are mistaken, M’lord Sheriff, I know several persons in the vicinity at the time who claim to have heard wolves that night. I have the list here, if you care to call them for testimony. Besides, what with the noise and revelry in the house that night, who but those few not in attendance would have noticed?”

“Is this all?”

“No, M’lord, there were also numerous wolf tracks found at the scene the following morning.”

“This I was aware of, but that is still hardly conclusive.”

“Indeed no, M’lord. But I believe that this is: In this envelope, I have several hairs which I found embedded in the wound inflicted upon Mr. Barnstabrake, and I am quite certain that they are those of a wolf. Wolfskin is a relatively valuable pelt, and I have reviewed as much relevant literature on the subject as I could find and examined every example of wolf fur I have been able lay my hands on, and I am absolutely certain that these hairs came from a wolf.”

“Are you suggesting that a wolf leaped up on its hind legs and somehow struck Mr. Barnstabrake on the head rather than biting him? And if these wolves were so bold as to attack a pair of adults in close proximity to a large gathering, why drag off only one?”

“I do not know, M’lord, it is all very strange. But this is the evidence I have, and I can see no other possibility.”

“But what about Kobalds!”

“Silence! The Moot will consider now consider the evidence presented.”

The Moot considered the matter. Loudly, excitedly, and not a little ferociously. The matter was argued back and forth, too and fro far past the time when the light faded completely and torches had to be sent for. It was not until midnight that any course of action was at last settle upon.

Popular opinion remained fixed where it had found sure anchor before. Once the public grasps a certain idea, it takes far more than a single appeal, whether rational or impassioned, to dissuade it. The point was taken as settled: Black Abraham, in the villainous guise of Mr. Gates, was the surest culprit, and plans were laid to effect his capture. Never before had there been such a hunt as this, and although it was agreed that the details were to be sorted out the following morning by the Sheriff and a select committee of prominent citizens, all were certain that the matter would soon be brought to rest with Miss Watson recovered safely and the terrible brigand brought to swift and dreadful justice.

Fanny had remained throughout the entire proceeding observing carefully. She digested their conclusions as Sir Howard’s carriage rolled up at last to convey its master and his companions to their respective abodes, and it was her view that she was hardly more enlightened now than she was at tea time. She had a distinct feeling that all was not right, that there was more to this onerous mystery, something obvious and dreadful that no one dared even consider.

The wind had long since arisen and the clouds broken into a scurrying mass of sinister veils through which the moon shown with a dim reluctance. As Fanny ascended into the carriage, a distant sound drifted along the feverish breeze that sent a jolt of sheer terror through her soul.

Somewhere, somewhere frightfully nearby, a wolf was howling at the night sky.