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nineveh_ukSpoilers for Clouds of Witness. This was to have been longer, but given that it's been two years since I first intended to write it, and I now have an alternative way in which I want to introduce Lord Peter to the Wizarding World, I thought that I would produce the short version. Dorothy L. Sayers herself produced two stories with were-cats, both in In the Teeth of the Evidence, "The Leopard Lady" brilliantly creepy, and "The Cyprian Cat", so it's even canonically plausible...
The Were-Leopard of Whemmeling Fell
The beast stalked the moors. It was a vile night. Rain lashed at the granite scarps that slashed the steep hillsides, and rendered even the friendly heather treacherous. If the wind left no home for the notorious fog that haunted Whemmeling Fell, the thick cloud and storm lent the sky a hardly less treacherous aspect. In such a night as this, the Duke of Denver roamed across the moor. In such a night as this, Lady Mary packed her bag to run away to London. In such a night as this, Denis Cathcart wrote a last letter to his love and took the revolver from the Duke’s study, and Mr Pettigrew-Robinson grunted at his haemorrhoids.
Outside, the beast stalked the moors. The slick grass did not trouble her. She picked her way delicately along her road, placing each paw precisely. Her shoulders rose and fell with a lithe grace, the glossy fur smooth and fine, wrapping her warm against the weather. No lady ever wore her coat with such distinction. No small aristocratic head was ever held so perfectly on such a long neck, such a sleek spine. No duchess ever knew her diamonds gleam against blue-blooded skin as the collar of diamonds gleamed in the rain over the muscular neck and slim breast of the were-leopard. No other duchess.
She had not intended to spy on her husband. If the unkind suggested to themselves that she had chosen to visit friends whilst her husband shot grouse in Riddlesdale because she would not share his bed, they did not know her. Nor did they know the friends she had visited, the train to Wiltshire, the yew hedges and the wrought-iron gates that parted like smoke, her silent satisfaction in the smallness of the manor house before her.
‘My son,’ said her host, indicating the boy in serge robes, ‘Abraxas.’ She nodded at the child. ‘And your own son, madam. He is not with you?’
‘He takes after his father. Though I think in a few years my daughter shall join us.’
‘I am delighted to hear it.’
Then the flying carpet, that still astonished her. The casual chatter of her companions speaking of friends old and new, old McGonagall, sworn to come this last time, the promise of a new girl, frightened but determined. She remembered her own first visit the house on the moor on All Hallows’ Eve, the bite on her shoulder barely healed. She had been fifteen years old.
The house was as it ever was, the old witch welcoming them, the fierce wine (one must say for both Gerald and Peter that their father had taught them about wine), the thick red carpets into which her claws sank so delightfully, the high curtained beds, the smoke and mirrors. A magical place. And yet tonight it was not enough. Her husband was barely ten miles away, the distance and weather were nothing to the leopard. So her long tail flicked out of the door and she turned her way towards the Lodge.
His scent was almost washed away by the rain, yet it was there. She licked the rock where his foot had trod, but there was nothing else. He was out in the moor in the darkness, and even she could not track him, but she knew his purpose. She turned towards the distant house; she would meet him there.
Denis Cathcart, sitting at the Duke’s desk, drunk, but not so drunk that he could not write nor load the pistol taken from the drawer, took the little charm out of his pocket. He did not know why Simone, the minx, had given it to him, with her jest about needing it to ward off bad luck and his sister-in-law. It had brought him no luck at cards, had brought him less than no luck. Still, he would take it with him. He climbed out through the window and forced down the sash. The rain soaked him, but he did not care. A vague thought of not in front of the servants led him into the shelter of the shrubbery. He stood for some time, turning the gun in his hands, so that even the rain died and the moon peeped from behind a cloud and shone on the barrel and on the cat in his hand, and he wondered whether perhaps though all was up, it might still be worth something. He could go to Kenya, buy a farm. There would be no Simone, and no society, but there would be cards, and drink and men and a hot sun, and it would be one in the eye for his sister. Yes, perhaps after all he would not -
Her steps were noiseless, but she could not stop the water that rolled from her back and crackled onto the dry leaves. Cathcart started,
‘Who’s there!’
She stepped forward onto the path, and the moon shone on her eyes, emerald-green and glowing. He froze and she advanced upon him, step by slow step, her paws making no sound upon the gravel. His hands clutched at his chest, and the diamond cat fell, but he remembered the gun. He levelled it at her, but she did not flinch and he remembered that they said that only silver was any use. She was twenty yards away, less. Soon she would be close enough to spring. It seemed he would get some use out of the gun after all. He could not save his life, but he could save his soul. He fired.
The Were-Leopard of Whemmeling Fell
The beast stalked the moors. It was a vile night. Rain lashed at the granite scarps that slashed the steep hillsides, and rendered even the friendly heather treacherous. If the wind left no home for the notorious fog that haunted Whemmeling Fell, the thick cloud and storm lent the sky a hardly less treacherous aspect. In such a night as this, the Duke of Denver roamed across the moor. In such a night as this, Lady Mary packed her bag to run away to London. In such a night as this, Denis Cathcart wrote a last letter to his love and took the revolver from the Duke’s study, and Mr Pettigrew-Robinson grunted at his haemorrhoids.
Outside, the beast stalked the moors. The slick grass did not trouble her. She picked her way delicately along her road, placing each paw precisely. Her shoulders rose and fell with a lithe grace, the glossy fur smooth and fine, wrapping her warm against the weather. No lady ever wore her coat with such distinction. No small aristocratic head was ever held so perfectly on such a long neck, such a sleek spine. No duchess ever knew her diamonds gleam against blue-blooded skin as the collar of diamonds gleamed in the rain over the muscular neck and slim breast of the were-leopard. No other duchess.
She had not intended to spy on her husband. If the unkind suggested to themselves that she had chosen to visit friends whilst her husband shot grouse in Riddlesdale because she would not share his bed, they did not know her. Nor did they know the friends she had visited, the train to Wiltshire, the yew hedges and the wrought-iron gates that parted like smoke, her silent satisfaction in the smallness of the manor house before her.
‘My son,’ said her host, indicating the boy in serge robes, ‘Abraxas.’ She nodded at the child. ‘And your own son, madam. He is not with you?’
‘He takes after his father. Though I think in a few years my daughter shall join us.’
‘I am delighted to hear it.’
Then the flying carpet, that still astonished her. The casual chatter of her companions speaking of friends old and new, old McGonagall, sworn to come this last time, the promise of a new girl, frightened but determined. She remembered her own first visit the house on the moor on All Hallows’ Eve, the bite on her shoulder barely healed. She had been fifteen years old.
The house was as it ever was, the old witch welcoming them, the fierce wine (one must say for both Gerald and Peter that their father had taught them about wine), the thick red carpets into which her claws sank so delightfully, the high curtained beds, the smoke and mirrors. A magical place. And yet tonight it was not enough. Her husband was barely ten miles away, the distance and weather were nothing to the leopard. So her long tail flicked out of the door and she turned her way towards the Lodge.
His scent was almost washed away by the rain, yet it was there. She licked the rock where his foot had trod, but there was nothing else. He was out in the moor in the darkness, and even she could not track him, but she knew his purpose. She turned towards the distant house; she would meet him there.
Denis Cathcart, sitting at the Duke’s desk, drunk, but not so drunk that he could not write nor load the pistol taken from the drawer, took the little charm out of his pocket. He did not know why Simone, the minx, had given it to him, with her jest about needing it to ward off bad luck and his sister-in-law. It had brought him no luck at cards, had brought him less than no luck. Still, he would take it with him. He climbed out through the window and forced down the sash. The rain soaked him, but he did not care. A vague thought of not in front of the servants led him into the shelter of the shrubbery. He stood for some time, turning the gun in his hands, so that even the rain died and the moon peeped from behind a cloud and shone on the barrel and on the cat in his hand, and he wondered whether perhaps though all was up, it might still be worth something. He could go to Kenya, buy a farm. There would be no Simone, and no society, but there would be cards, and drink and men and a hot sun, and it would be one in the eye for his sister. Yes, perhaps after all he would not -
Her steps were noiseless, but she could not stop the water that rolled from her back and crackled onto the dry leaves. Cathcart started,
‘Who’s there!’
She stepped forward onto the path, and the moon shone on her eyes, emerald-green and glowing. He froze and she advanced upon him, step by slow step, her paws making no sound upon the gravel. His hands clutched at his chest, and the diamond cat fell, but he remembered the gun. He levelled it at her, but she did not flinch and he remembered that they said that only silver was any use. She was twenty yards away, less. Soon she would be close enough to spring. It seemed he would get some use out of the gun after all. He could not save his life, but he could save his soul. He fired.
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(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-31 11:29 pm (UTC)Though I must admit to a small amount of confusion, owing to the number of years since I read Clouds of Witness. Where is this place meant to be:
The house was as it ever was, the old witch welcoming them, the fierce wine (one must say for both Gerald and Peter that their father had taught them about wine), the thick red carpets into which her claws sank so delightfully, the high curtained beds, the smoke and mirrors. Is it the place where Gerald keeps his mistress? Or somewhere I've forgotten about?
Also does St George have a sister? That may have escaped me as well.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-01 10:49 am (UTC)Saint-George has a younger sister (mentioned in GN and BH), named in a Sayers letter as Winifred.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-01 10:52 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-01 11:46 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-02 10:08 am (UTC)Ah, that is where she is named!
(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-01 12:45 am (UTC)Flying carpets? How dreadfully naughty of the Malfoys... or is this pre-ban?
(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-01 10:52 am (UTC)Oh, pre-ban of course. Now I'm wondering how the ban was related to the development of radar, which detected carpets and thereby breached the Statute of Secrecy, and whether this is another aspects of Muggles Stealing Our Freedoms played on by the pureblood brigade.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-01 07:25 am (UTC)LOL! And yet also rather wonderfully eerie.
I hope St George's sister did beome a were-thingy, she deserves more story than she gets.
I really like the intertwining of the diamond cat and the leopard, and it's an intriguing take on Simone as well. Silly Denis for dropping his only possible source of protection!
His musings strike me as frankly more plausible than the canonical letter - I have a hard time buying "I know you're a complete gold-digger, but I love you so much anyway, I have to shoot myself". The "it would be one in the eye for his sister", on the other hand, completely sells it to me!
(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-01 10:59 am (UTC)I can buy Cathcart shooting himself because it is All Up and Simone as a symbol of that. But not as the actual cause. The whole idea of the fic was started by a conversation on a train about how daft the book is at times, and that were-leopards would make it a lot more plausible (in the non-existent long version, Goyles runs away for pretty obvious reasons, and Mary's hysteria is because she thinks she has been infected).
(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-01 09:05 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-01 11:49 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-01 12:27 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-02 09:41 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-01 03:21 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-02 09:42 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-01 09:48 pm (UTC)And I particularly appreciated Cathcart's sudden, brief moment of common sense - too bad it came too late.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-02 09:45 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-11 12:42 pm (UTC)