The White Wolf's Son Read Online Free

freshwater crayfish, those tiny, almost transparent relatives of the lobster, but the sun on the water
     was too bright, and all I found were a few minnows. My cell phone was in a little holder swung across my body, and I thought
     I heard it start to ring. False alarm. I was on the point of giving up on the fishing trip when suddenly the phone began to
     make a very peculiar noise, almost as if it was warning me that my battery was low. Although I had recharged it while I was
     having lunch, I pulled it out and flipped it open, wondering if Mrs. Hawthornthwaite was trying to get in touch with me. She
     sometimes rang at teatime if there was something special, like toasted scones or crumpets, which were best eaten hot.
    The phone was completely dead. I pressed the recognition button without success. There were no text messages. So I put the
     thing away again, thinking, a passing fluke of the hills, and returned my attention to the river until a noise from above
     me told me that someone was on the path. I got up in a hurry. This was all a bit spooky.There he was, a monster of a man, swinging out of the woods: a tall, bulky figure wrapped in a big leather overcoat, his head
     shaded by a wide-brimmed felt hat, his eyes hidden by reflecting sunglasses, with a scarf drawn up to his nose, as if it were
     winter and he were feeling the cold. Perhaps he was worried about inhaling dust from the quarry’s latest blast.
    I must admit I felt a little more vulnerable than usual as the burly man stopped on the path high above me and lifted a gloved
     hand in greeting. His accent was thick, deep and vaguely familiar.
    “Good afternoon, young lady.”
    He was probably trying to sound friendly, but I gave him a cold nod in response. I hated people calling me “young lady.” It
     seemed condescending. Perhaps a little ostentatiously I sat down and began buckling the straps of my shoes.
    But the man did not walk on. “You live around here, do you?” he asked. There was an edge, an undertone to his voice, that
     I really didn’t like.
    Again I nodded. I couldn’t see anything of his face at all and began to wonder if he was deliberately hiding it. He reminded
     me of the pictures of the Invisible Man I had seen in the Alan Moore comics my brother collected. He hardly seemed any better
     tempered than that character. Was that why I was so wary of him?
    “Am I on the right path for the village of Ingleton?” he asked.
    “You’re on the back road,” I told him. “Keep going and it’ll take you to the middle of the square across from the butcher’s.
     The newsagent will be down on the main road to your right.”
    He thanked me and began to move on. Then he hesitated.He turned, fingering the lower part of his face, still covered by the scarf. “Has anyone else come this way recently?”
    I shook my head.
    “I’m looking for a rather thin, pale gentleman. A foreigner. Likes to wear black. He would have arrived a day or so ago. Mr.
     Klosterheim? Might he be staying in these parts?”
    “You could ask at the newsagent for the Bridge Hotel,” I told him. “They’ll put you right for where the Bridge is, on the
     other side of the viaduct.” There were also a couple of guesthouses closer, but I didn’t feel like offering him too much information.
     His had been a very odd question for anyone to ask in Ingleton. I wondered where he could have come from. He wore high, thick,
     flat-soled boots of battered leather, reaching to his knee. His trousers were tucked into the boots. He had no haversack,
     and he didn’t look like any kind of hiker I’d ever seen. The clothes were old-fashioned without being identifiable with any
     historical period. Instinctively I was glad of the distance between us, and intended to keep it. Slowly I finished fastening
     my shoes.
    He grunted, thought over what I’d said, then began moving. He was soon gone, clumping along the track like a campaigning soldier.
     The track was used by everyone local