Errantry: Strange Stories

Uncle Lou

Nina’s Uncle Lou lived in Hampstead, on a narrow, leafy side road that overlooked the Heath—from this vantage, a seemingly endless sweep of green, studded with ancient oaks where ravens clacked and acorns rained down to be gathered by small children and, sometimes, over-eager dogs loosed for a run. Nina could remember collecting acorns with her parents when she was that age, not much bigger than a small dog herself, and carefully piling them where squirrels could find them.

Back then, she’d found this part of London vaguely sinister. The trees, probably, so gnarled and immense and reminiscent of a disturbing illustration in one of her picture books. Now of course she knew it was an impossibly posh area, late-model hybrids and Lotuses and Volvos parked in the drives, Irish and Polish nannies pushing Silver Cross prams, women slender as herons walking terriers that could fit in the palm of Nina’s hand. Hampstead had been posh when she was a girl, too, but then the burnished brick houses and wrought-iron fences had possessed a louche air, as though the Kray twins might be up to something in the carriage house.

Nina was fourteen when she realized that rakish edge emanated not from Hampstead but from Uncle Lou himself, with his long hair, bespoke suits from Dougie Millings, and gold-tasseled Moroccan slippers that curled up at the toes like a genie’s. He was her favorite uncle—her only uncle, and her only relation except for a centenarian great-great-aunt supposedly entrenched in a retirement community on the Costa del Sol. Nina was an only child, with no first cousins and grandparents long dead. Her divorced parents were dead too, years ago when Nina was still at university.

Since then, she had been in the habit of visiting Uncle Lou once a month or so, when his travels brought him home. He would disappear for months at a time and, when he returned, always answered her questions as to his whereabouts by placing a finger to his lips.

His peripatetic lifestyle had slowed in the last decade, so she now saw him more often. He was a travel writer, creator of the popular World by Night series. Budapest by Night had been his first, unexpected bestseller, quickly spawning Paris by Night, London by Night, Marseilles by Night, Vienna by Night and so on ad infinitum. This was in the 1960s and early 1970s, when the world was much larger and far more exotic. Bohemian tourism was just gaining a toehold in the travel industry, fueled by rumors of Bryon Gysin’s pilgrimage to Jakarta with Brian Jones to observe whirling dervishes, and the legions of hippies decamping to Katmandu to eat yak butter whilst negotiating a drug deal.

Yet no matter how obscure or remote a place, Uncle Lou had been there before you, and already returned to his flat in Pallis Mews to bash out an account of where to find the best all-night noodle shop in Bangkok; or a black-market mushroom stall beneath the catacombs in Rome; or a Stockholm voyeurs’ club masquerading as a film society devoted to works that featured the forgotten silent movie star Sigrid Blau.

“Doesn’t he ever feel guilty?” Nina’s mother had once asked her. Lou was her husband’s much-older brother; he had been in the War, and afterward spent several years in Eastern Europe, where his activities were unknown but remained the object of much speculation by Nina’s parents. He had returned to London sporting a beard and a newly-fashionable mane of long hair. The beard was not a permanent affectation—Uncle Lou had been clean-shaven before the War, yet afterward was remarkably hirsute, shaving at least once and sometimes twice a day. But he kept the flowing black hair, which became a trademark of his author photos.

Nina’s mother had always found him “showy,” her code word for homosexual, though Uncle Lou in fact was a notorious ladies man.

Nina had frowned at her mother’s question. “Guilty about what?”

“About promoting criminal activities?”

“He’s not promoting anything,” said Nina. “The things he writes about help the local economy.”

“I suppose that’s what you call it,” her mother sniffed, and returned to her delphiniums.

This afternoon, early October sunlight washed across the cobblestone walk leading to Pallis Mews. Uncle Lou’s vintage Aston Martin DB4 was parked out front beneath a green tarpaulin, with an impasto of bird droppings that suggested it had not been driven in some time. Pale yellow leaves had banked up against the front door to the flat, and Nina plucked a torn plastic bag from the ivy and clematis vines that covered the brick wall.

She had never visited Uncle Lou without an invitation by telephone or, these days, email. The summons was always precise, for late afternoon or early evening; this one had read Drop by 5:15 Thursday 19th. In his kitchen, Uncle Lou had a large wall calendar, a sort of scroll, with the phases of the moon marked on it and myriad jottings in his fine, minuscule penmanship, indicating the exact hour and minute in which various meetings had been scheduled. At home he never met with more than one visitor at a time; the nature of his work was solitary as well as nocturnal.

When she was still in her teens, Nina had once arrived ten minutes early. She could hear Uncle Lou inside, washing dishes as he listened to Radio 2, and even glimpsed him strolling past the front window to turn the music down. But the door did not open until the appointed time.

Today it opened even before she could knock.

“Nina, dear.” Her uncle smiled and beckoned her inside. “You look lovely. Watch that pile there, I haven’t got them out to the bin yet.”

Nina sidestepped a heap of newspapers as he closed the door. Uncle Lou had always been meticulous, even fussy. He’d employed a cleaning woman who came once a week to keep the white Floti rugs spotless and arrange the kilim pillows neatly on the white leather sofa and matching chairs; to straighten the Hockney painting and make sure the Dansk dishes were in their cupboards.

But several years ago, the cleaning woman had moved to Brighton to be closer to her grandchildren. Uncle Lou hadn’t bothered to find someone new, and the flat had developed the defiantly unkempt air of a clubgoer who knows she is too old to wear transparent vinyl blouses, even with a camisole beneath, but continues to do so anyway.

“I know, it’s a bit of a mess.” Uncle Lou sighed and bent to pick up a stray newspaper that was attempting escape, and set it back atop the stack with a hand that trembled slightly. His Moroccan slippers flapped around his bony feet, gold tassels gone and curled toes sadly flattened. “But it’s so expensive now to find anyone. Come on in, dear, do you want a drink?”

“No thanks. Or yes, well, if you’re going to have something.”

Uncle Lou leaned over to graze her cheek with a kiss. He hadn’t shaved, and she noted an alarming turquoise blister—actually, a blob of toothpaste—on his neck.

“That’s my girl,” he said, and shuffled into the kitchen.

While he got drinks, Nina wandered into his office, a brick-walled space covered with bookshelves that held copies of the By Night books in dozens, perhaps hundreds, of various translations. There were more untidy stacks here, of unopened mail that had not yet made its way onto Uncle Lou’s desk.

She glanced at one of the envelopes. Its postal date was a month previous. She looked over her shoulder, and hastily flipped through more envelopes, finding some dated back to the spring. At the sound of Uncle Lou’s footsteps in the hall she turned quickly and went to meet him.

“Thanks.” She took the martini glass he offered her—it was clean, at least—and raised it to ting against his.

“Chin chin,” said Uncle Lou.

She walked with him to the dining room, which overlooked a good-sized courtyard. Years ago Uncle Lou had let the outside space revert to a tangle of mulberry bushes, etiolated plane trees, and ground ivy. It would have made a nice dog run, but Uncle Lou had never kept a dog. There were signs of some kind of animals rooting around—foxes, probably, which were common in Hampstead, though Nina had never caught a whiff of their distinctive musky scent.

They settled at the dining table. Uncle Lou set out a plate of olives and some slightly stale biscuits. They drank and chatted about a travel piece in last week’s Guardian, a noisy dog in Nina’s neighborhood, people they knew in common.

“Have you heard from Valerie Minton ?” asked Nina. She finished her drink and nibbled at an olive. “You haven’t mentioned her for a while.”

Uncle Lou sighed. “Oh dear, very sad. I guess I forgot to tell you. She died in March. A heart thing—a blessing, really. She had that early-onset Alzheimer’s.” He downed the rest of his martini and set the empty glass beside hers. “Here’s a piece of good advice: don’t get old.”

“Oh, Uncle Lou.” Nina hugged him. “You’re not old.”

But that of course was a lie. She could feel how thin he’d gotten, and frail. And the flat was all too clearly becoming a burden in terms of upkeep.

She grasped his hand and stared at him. His long hair was white, thinner than it had been. His face was lined, but a lifetime of keeping late hours had saved him from skin-damaging ultraviolet rays and preserved a certain youthful suppleness. With his high cheekbones, stark blade of a nose and cleft chin, he might have been an aging actor, with eyes a disconcerting shade of amber, so pale they appeared almost colorless in strong light. The theatrical effect was heightened by his wardrobe, which this afternoon consisted of an embroidered India-print shirt over wide-wale corduroy trousers that had once been canary yellow but had faded to the near-white of lemon pith, and the heavy silver ring he always wore on his right pointer finger.

The ring wobbled now as that finger shook, scolding her. “I am older than old, Nina. Older than God, who has never forgiven me for it.”

Nina laughed, and he turned to gaze wistfully out into the courtyard. How old was Uncle Lou? In his eighties, at least. Many of his old friends were dead; others had moved to live with their children, or into retirement communities. Nina’s own flat was too small for another person; she could move in with him, she supposed, but she knew Uncle Lou wouldn’t hear of it. A few years earlier, he had sold the By Night trademark and backlist to a web entrepreneur for an impressive sum. Perhaps he could be encouraged to look into one of those posh facilities where elderly people of means lived?

She wouldn’t bring it up this afternoon, but made a mental note to do some research herself into what was available near Hampstead.

Uncle Lou squeezed her hand. “Do you feel up to a walk on the Heath?”

Nina nodded. “Great idea.”

They strolled along a path that meandered over a gentle rise crowned by an ancient oak. There were always families with young children here, and lots of dogs off leash.

“Uh-oh,” said Nina, as a silken-furred red setter came bounding toward them. She moved protectively to his side. “Incoming…”

Dogs behaved in a peculiar fashion around Uncle Lou. Those that had previously encountered him acted as the setter did now: as it drew near, it dropped to its belly and inched toward him, whining softly, tail wagging madly.

Strange dogs, however, barked or snarled, ears pressed tight against their skulls and tails held low, and often fled before Uncle Lou could hold out his hand and make reassuring cht cht sounds that Nina could barely hear.

“Hello there.” Uncle Lou stopped and gazed down at the setter, smiling. His knees bent slightly and he winced as he reached to touch the dog’s forehead. “Conor, isn’t it? Good dog.”

At the old man’s touch the setter scrambled to its feet and danced around him, ears flapping.

“Sorry, sorry!” A man rushed up and grasped the dog’s collar, clipping a leash onto it. “Don’t want him to knock you over!”

Uncle Lou shook his head. “Oh, he wouldn’t do that. Would you, Conor?”

He stooped to take the dog’s head between his hands and gazed into its eyes. The setter grew absolutely still, as though it sensed a game bird nearby; then dropped to its belly, head cocked as it stared up at Uncle Lou.

“Well, he likes you, doesn’t he?” The man patted the setter’s head, smiling. “Come on then, Conor. Let’s go.”

Nina waved as the man strode off, the setter straining at the leash. Uncle Lou stood beside her, watching until the two figures disappeared into the trees. He turned to his niece, nodding as though all this had occurred according to some plan.

“I’d like you to accompany me to an event.” He gestured at the path, indicating they should begin to head back home. “If you’re not too busy.”

“Of course,” said Nina. “Where is it?”

“At the zoo.”

“The zoo?” Nina looked over in surprise. Uncle Lou had always been far more likely to invite his niece to attend a clandestine midnight gathering of political dissidents or artists, than to suggest a visit to the zoo.

“Yes. The Whipsnade Zoo, not Regents Park, so we’ll have to drive up to Dunstable. A fundraiser for a new building, a home for endangered fruit bats I think, or maybe it’s kiwis? Something nocturnal, anyway. There’ll be press around, the local gentry, maybe a few minor celebrities. You know the sort of thing. Someone in the PR department obviously thought it would be amusing if I was in attendance. You can be my date.”

He slipped his arm into hers, and Nina laughed. “Sure. Sounds like fun. When is it? Do I need to dress up?”

“Next Wednesday. I believe the invitation says to wear black. Not very imaginative. But you always look lovely, dear.”

They’d reached the Pallis Mews flat. Uncle Lou paused to pluck a clematis blossom from the ivy-covered wall, and turned to poke its stem through a buttonhole in Nina’s jacket. “There. Purple is your color, isn’t it? Thank you for dropping by.”

He kissed her cheek and Nina embraced him, hugging him tightly. “I’ll see you next week.”

Uncle Lou nodded, long white hair stirring in the evening breeze, and walked unsteadily back inside.

The following week Nina showed up at the appointed quarter-hour, 4:45. A bit earlier than customary for Uncle Lou, but they wanted to allow plenty of time for rush hour traffic on the M1. Out front, the tarp had been removed from the Aston Martin, which gleamed like quicksilver in the twilight.

“Hello, darling, don’t you look marvelous!” exclaimed Uncle Lou as she stepped into the flat. “I haven’t seen that dress before, have I? Lovely.”

He kissed her cheek, and she noticed his own cheeks were flushed and his tawny eyes bright.

“You look lovely, too,” she said, laughing. “Is there some ulterior motive for this event? Am I the beard for an assignation?”

For an instant Uncle Lou appeared alarmed, but then he shook his head.

“No.” He made a show of straightening his velvet jacket, a somewhat frayed black paisley with silver embroidery. “It’s been a while since I was out and about, that’s all. And I need to be worthy of you, of course.”

She waited as he moved about the flat, collecting keys, the large black envelope containing the invitation, a plastic carrier bag from Sainsburys, an umbrella.

“I think it’s supposed to be nice,” said Nina, eyeing the umbrella.

“You’re probably right.” Uncle Lou set the umbrella back atop a hall table and paused, catching his breath. After a moment he slid a hand into his pocket, withdrew it to hold out a set of car keys.

“Here.” He put the keys into Nina’s palm and closed her fingers around them. “I’d like you to drive.”

“What?” Nina’s eyes widened. “The—your car?”

Uncle Lou nodded. “Yes. I don’t trust myself anymore. It used to be I saw better at night than daytime, but now…” He grimaced. “Last time I took it out I drove onto the curb near Tesco. You can drive a standard, right?”

“Yes—of course. But—”

“I’m giving it to you.” He turned and picked up a large manila envelope on the side table. “Everything’s in here, I’ve done all the paperwork already. Title and deed. It’s yours. There are some other papers in there as well. You might look at them when you have some spare time.”

Nina stared at the keys in her hand. “But—are you sure, Uncle Lou?”

“Absolutely. Impress that boyfriend of yours at the law firm. I can always borrow it back if I need to. Now, we’d better go—I don’t want to be late.”

He tucked the manila envelope beneath his arm. Once inside the car, he slid it into the glovebox. “Let’s remember it’s there,” he said, and sank into the leather seat.

They ran into heavy traffic heading north, but this eased as they approached Dunstable. The zoo was in the countryside a few miles outside town, within a greenbelt that was in stark contrast to the depressing sprawl behind them. Uncle Lou rolled down his window, letting in the smell of autumn leaves and smoke. On a distant green hillside, the immense chalk figure of a lion had been carved. Above the hill, a full moon had just begun to rise, tarnished silver against the periwinkle sky.

“Look at that,” said Nina. “Isn’t that beautiful?”

“Isn’t it,” said Uncle Lou, and squeezed her hand upon the gear-shift.

They arrived at the zoo entrance shortly after the reception’s opening time.

“Don’t park there,” Uncle Lou said when Nina put on her turn signal for the main carpark. “Keep going—there, on the left. Much less crowded, and you’ll be able to leave quickly later.”

Nina angled the Aston Martin through a narrow gate that opened into a much smaller lot. It held only a handful of vehicles, most of them zoo vans and trucks.

“Are we allowed to park here?” she asked, after following Uncle Lou’s directions to ease the Aston Martin beneath a large oak.

“Oh, yes. It never really fills up. Bit of a secret.” With an effort, he extricated himself from the car, steadying himself against the hood and sighing. “I swear, that car gets smaller every time I get inside it.” He pointed at a gap between an overgrown hedge. “That way.”

“How do you know about this?” asked Nina, stepping gingerly through the gap.

“I have friends here I visit sometimes. Ah, that must be where we’re supposed to be…”

This zoo was much more parklike than the London Zoo; more like the grounds of a stately home, only minus the home, and with elephants and oryx and other large wildlife. Dusk had deepened into early evening, the moon poised above them in a lapis sky where a few faint stars shimmered. Unearthly noises echoed through the night: high-pitched chitters; a loud snuffling that became a bellow; an odd hollow pumping sound.

“Least bittern,” said Uncle Lou, cocking his head in the direction of the sound.

Nina squinted in the fading light. “How do you know that?”

“I’m a font of useless knowledge. I’ve built my career on it.”

A path led them toward a large field where a crowd milled around an open-sided white marquee tent. A few security guards and several men and women in staff uniforms that marked them as animal keepers mingled with people wearing loose interpretations of fancy dress. At a small booth beside the tent, a middle-aged woman in a black faux-fur capelet examined Uncle Lou’s invitation.

“I know who you are,” she said, beaming up at him. “I met my husband because of Athens by Night. Is this your daughter?”

“My niece.” Uncle Lou tucked Nina’s arm into his.

The woman checked their names off a list and gestured toward the tent. “Go get some champagne. Enjoy!”

The reception was to raise funds for a new, state-of-the art Owl House, which would provide habitat for the endangered Eurasian Eagle-Owl and Pygmy Owl, along with more common species. Beneath the marquee, tables draped in black and silver held trays of canapes and elaborate hors d’oeuvre made to resemble owls, full moons, and bats. In one corner, a large owl with a slender chain attached to its leg perched upon a leather gauntlet covering the arm of a tall, blonde young man in zoo staff livery. A number of guests had gathered here, and the owl regarded them with baleful hauteur, now and then ruffling its feathers and clacking its beak noisily.

After making a beeline for the bar, Nina and Uncle Lou wandered around the tent, drinking their champagne and admiring a large display with three-dimensional models of the proposed Owl House. A few people walked over to clasp Uncle Lou’s hand and greet him by name, including Miranda Eccles, an ancient woman writer of some renown. Nina had often heard the rumor that the two had been lovers. While they spoke, Nina slipped away to get two more glasses of champagne. By the time she returned, the elderly woman was gone.

“Let’s go say hello to that owl,” said Uncle Lou.

He handed his empty glass to a passing waiter and took a full one from Nina. They edged their way to the front of the group, being careful not to spill their champagne. The owl had turned its back on the onlookers.

“It looks rather like Miranda, doesn’t it?” observed Uncle Lou.

The owl’s head abruptly swiveled in a disconcerting two-hundred-and-sixty-degree arc. Its yellow eyes fixed on Uncle Lou, the pupils large as pound coins. Without warning it raised its wings and flapped them menacingly, beak parting to emit an ear-splitting screech.

Nina gasped. A few people cried out, then laughed nervously as the owl-keeper swiftly produced a canvas hood that he quickly dropped over the bird.

“He’s getting restless,” he explained, adjusting the hood. “Full moon, he wants to hunt. And he’s not used to so many people.”

“I feel the same way.” Uncle Lou took Nina’s elbow and steered her toward an exit. “Let’s take a walk outside.”

They handed off their empty glasses and stepped back into the night. Uncle Lou seemed invigorated by the champagne: he threw his head back, gazing at the moon; laughed then pointed to a black tracery of trees some distance away.

“There,” he said.

He began walking so quickly that Nina had to run to catch up. When she reached his side, he took her hand, slowing his pace.

“You’ve been a very good niece.” He glanced down at her. For the first time Nina noticed he had neglected to shave, perhaps for several days: gray stubble covered his jaw and chin. “I don’t know how my brother and your mother managed to produce such a wonderful daughter, but I’m very glad they did.”

“Oh, Uncle Lou.” Nina’s eyes filled with tears. “I feel the same way.”

“I know you do. Here.” He stopped, with some effort twisted the heavy silver ring from his hand. He grasped Nina’s wrist and slid the ring onto her right pointer finger. “I want you to have this.”

She looked at him in surprise. “It fits! It always looked so big.”

Moonlight glinted on the silver band as Uncle Lou drew it to his lips and kissed her knuckle, the gray hairs on his chin soft where they brushed her fingertips.

“Of course it fits. You have my hands,” he said, and let hers drop. “Come on.”

They passed artfully landscaped habitats with placards that indicated that antelopes or Bactrian camels lived there, behind hidden moats or fences cunningly designed to resemble vines or reeds or waist-high grass. A gated road permitted cars and zoo buses to drive through a mock savanna where lions and cheetahs prowled.

Nina saw no sign of any animals, though she occasionally caught the ripe scents of dung or musk, the muddy green smell of a manmade pond or marsh. The snorts and hoots had diminished as night deepened and creatures either settled to sleep or, in the case of predators, grew silent and watchful.

But then a single wavering cry rang out from the direction of the trees, ending as abruptly as it began. Nina’s entire body flashed cold.

“What was that?” she whispered. But Uncle Lou didn’t reply.

They reached the stand of trees, where the gravel walkway forked. Without hesitation Uncle Lou bore to the left.

Here, more trees loomed alongside the path, their branches entwining above unruly thickets of thorny brush. Acorns and beech mast crunchds underfoot, so that it seemed as though they had entered a forest. There was a spicy smell of bracken, and another scent, unfamiliar but unmistakably an animal’s.

After a few minutes Uncle Lou stopped. He glanced behind them, and for a moment remained still, listening.

“This way,” he said, and ducked beneath the trees.

“Are we allowed here?” Nina called after him in a low urgent voice.

Uncle Lou’s words echoed back to her. “At night, everything is allowed. Shhh!”

She hesitated, trying to peer though the heavy greenery; finally ducked and began to push her way through, shielding her face with one hand. Brambles plucked at her dress, and she flinched as a thorn scraped against one leg.

But then the underbrush receded. She stepped into a small clearing thick with dead leaves. Several large trees loomed against the moonlit sky. Uncle Lou stood beneath one of these, breathing heavily as he stared at a small hill several yards away. More trees grew on its slope, between boulders and creeping vines.

“Uncle Lou?”

She took a step toward him, froze as a dark shape flowed between the boulders then disappeared. Before she could cry out she heard Uncle Lou’s soft voice.

“There’s a fence.”

She swallowed, blinking, looked where he pointed and saw a faint latticework of twisted chainlink. She waited for her heart to slow, then darted to his side.

And yes, now she could discern that behind the chainlink fence was a deep cement moat, maybe twenty feet wide and extending into the darkness in either direction. Vines straggled down its sides, and overhanging mats of moss and dead leaves.

They were at the back of one of the enclosures, a place where visitors were absolutely not allowed.

“Uncle Lou,” Nina whispered, her voice rising anxiously.

As she spoke, the shadowy form rematerialized, still on the far side of the moat, and directly across from them. It lowered its head between massive shoulders, moonlight flaring in its eyes so that they momentarily glowed red, then stretched out its front legs until its belly grazed the ground. A wolf.

Nina stared at it, torn between amazement and an atavistic fear unassuaged by the presence of the moat. When a second form slipped beside the first, she jumped.

“They won’t hurt you,” murmured Uncle Lou.

A third wolf trotted from the trees, and another, and another, until at last seven were ranged at the foot of the hill. They gazed at the old man, tongues lolling from their long jaws, and then each lay down in turn upon the grass in a watchful pose.

“What are they doing?” breathed Nina.

“The same thing we are,” replied Uncle Lou. “Excuse me for a moment—nature calls…”

He patted her shoulder and walked briskly toward another tree.

Nina politely turned away—he sometimes had to do this when they were embarked upon a long stroll on the Heath, always returning to shake his head and mutter, “Old man’s bladder.”

She looked back at the wolves, who now appeared somewhat restive. The largest one’s head snapped up. It stared at something overhead, then scrambled to its feet. At the same moment, Nina heard a rustling in the treetops, followed by a creaking sound.

“Uncle Lou?” She glanced at the tree where he’d gone to relieve himself. “Everything all right?”

The rustling grew louder. Nina looked up, and saw one of the upper boughs of the tree bending down at an alarming angle, so that its tip hung over the moat. A large whitish animal was clambering down its length, sending dead leaves and bits of debris to the ground beneath. Nina clapped a hand to her mouth as a shaft of moonlight struck the bough, revealing Uncle Lou, naked and slowing to a crawl as the branch bowed under him.

The wolves had all leapt up and stood in a row at the enclosure’s edge, eyes fixed on the white figure above them. With a loud crack, the bough snapped. At the same instant, Uncle Lou sprang from it, his pale form mottled with shadow as he landed upon the grass and rolled between the creatures there.

With a cry Nina ran forward, stopped and fought to see her uncle in the blur of dust and leaves and fur on the other side of the hidden moat. The wolves danced around it, tails held low, heads high, then drew back as another wolf struggled to its feet.

It was nearly the same size as the largest wolf, its muzzle white, and iron-gray fur tipped with silver. It shook its head, sending off a flurry of leaves and twigs, stood very still as the other big male approached to sniff its hindquarters, then its throat. Finally it touched the newcomer’s white muzzle, growling playfully as the two engaged in mock battle and the other wolves darted forward, tails wagging as they joined in.

Nina watched, too stunned to move. Not until the wolves turned and began to stream back into the shadows did she call out.

“Wait!”

The biggest wolf paused to glance back at her, then disappeared into the underbrush with the others. Only the grizzled wolf slowed, and looked over its shoulder at Nina. For a long moment it held her gaze, its tawny eyes and pale muzzle gilded by the moonlight. Then it too turned and trotted into the darkness.

Nina shook her head, trying to catch her breath. Astonishment curdled into terror as she thought of the reception not far away. She raced to the tree Uncle Lou had climbed, and beneath it found the plastic Sainsbury’s bag. Stuffed inside were his clothes, velvet jacket and corduroy trousers, socks and underwear, and at the very bottom the worn Moroccan slippers.

At sight of them she began to cry, but quickly wiped her eyes. Clutching the bag to her chest, she pushed her way back through the trees and overgrown brush until she reached the path again.

Somehow she found her way back to the carpark where she’d left the Aston Martin. She passed no one, walking as fast as she dared before breaking into a run as she neared the hedge that bounded the lot. The moon had dipped below the trees. The sounds of the reception had long since dwindled to the distant drone of departing cars.

She started the Aston Martin, heart pounding as she eased it onto the access road and headed toward the main highway, sobbing openly now, always careful not to exceed the speed limit.

At last she reached her apartment. She parked the car in the underground garage, leaving a note on the windscreen for the security guard so it would not be towed; retrieved the manila envelope from the glovebox, grabbed the bag containing Uncle Lou’s clothes, and went upstairs. She poured herself a stiff drink—a martini—downed it and with shaking hands opened the envelope.

Inside was a long, affectionate letter from her uncle, along with the title to the Aston Martin, and precisely detailed instructions as to how to dispose of his clothing and answer the awkward and inevitable questions that would soon arise regarding his disappearance. There was also contact information for his longtime accountant and solicitor, as well as for an old friend who lived in central Romania—and, of course, a copy of his will.

In addition to the car, he left the Pallis Mews flat and all it contained to Nina, along with his shares in the By Night enterprise. And there was an extremely generous bequest to the Whipsnade Zoo, with a provision that a sizable portion of it be used for the continued upkeep and improvement of the gray wolves’ habitat.

Nina sold the Aston Martin. Upkeep was costly, and she worried about it being vandalized or stolen. After six months she moved into the Pallis Mews flat, refurbishing it slightly and donating the unworn clothing to Oxfam, though she kept the Moroccan slippers. She continues to visit Uncle Lou every week, taking the train to Luton and then the bus to the zoo. The gray wolf exhibit is seldom crowded, even on Sundays, and Nina often has it to herself. Sometimes, the grizzled old wolf sits at the edge of the enclosure and gazes at her with his tawny eyes, and occasionally raises his white muzzle in a yodeling cry.

But more often than not, she finds him outstretched upon one of the moss-covered boulders, eyes closed, breathing gently: the very picture of lupine bliss as he sleeps in the afternoon sun.