“What do you mean?” John offered her a bottle of water from the minibar. “He’s looking for wayward girls, drug addicts who have disappeared. What does that have to do with your mother?”
Betsy sat down on the bed and opened the bottle. “Voda Dobra” the label read. The hotel probably charged a fortune for it, but she was desperately thirsty and had not checked the Internet yet to see if water in Slovakia was potable. She had been too young to worry about such things when she last visited the country.
“But he must have some connections here. Let’s face it—I’m not sure how we are going to go about finding a lost American when we don’t speak the language. I don’t even know where she was staying.”
John sighed. “Sure, why not? Talk to Sherlock Holmes down there, if he is still around. Ask him to lunch, if you want. I’m famished, aren’t you?”
Betsy stood up from the bed, making the springs squeak. She gave her ex a weary smile and a kiss on the cheek.
“I’m going down,” she said. “To see if I can find him.”
“Then I’m coming, too,” said John.
The Slovak waitress set down three tall mugs of frothy-headed beer.
“Dobre chut!” she said, with a friendly jerk of her chin.
“Dakiyiem,” said Betsy, managing to smile. “She just wished us good health.”
“Dakiyiem,” called John, to the waitress’s retreating back.
“You say your mother disappeared a week ago?” asked Detective Whitehall. “Without a trace?”
“We don’t know where she was staying. Her last e-mail said she was going to Piestany from Bratislava to see the ruins of a castle that belonged to Countess Bathory.”
Detective Whitehall put his fork down, a big bite of roast pork and sauerkraut speared on its tines. He pressed the white napkin to his lips.
“Countess Bathory?”
“Yes, my mother was working on a book, a sort of historical treatise on the woman.”
“Quite a bloody subject.”
“Are you familiar with her?”
Whitehall stuffed the large forkful of food in his mouth. Betsy wondered if he had done it on purpose to delay his response. He swallowed and took a long draught of beer.
“Yes. I am familiar with the legend of Countess Bathory.”
“You say legend,” said John. “So the stories of killing hundreds of women aren’t true?”
“Oh, that part is true, all right. She was a murderer, and a vicious one at that. The number of victims may have been exaggerated—it seems that her legend was popularized by King Matthias and the Habsburg clan. The king wanted desperately to get his hands on her land and to smear the Bathory name.”
“Why?”
“The seventeenth-century Bathorys—especially the Countess’s nephew Gabor, King of Transylvania—detested the Habsburgs. The Habsburgs couldn’t defend the frontier against the Ottomans, so it was left in the hands of the Bathorys and other wealthy Hungarian lords to stop the invaders. The Hungarians were largely Protestant and saw no advantage in keeping the Habsburg alliance.”
“You seem to know a lot about the Bathorys,” said John, sipping his beer. “Is their history a hobby for you or is there a reason for your research?”
The detective straightened. He looked into John’s eyes, then at Betsy.
“There have been a number of murders reported both in Bratislava and in the Piestany area. One theory we have is that all this bloody business is tied somehow to the legend of Countess Bathory.”
“Why would that be?” asked Betsy.
“Ask any Slovak if he knows the legend of Countess Bathory. There is not a Slovak alive who cannot recount the tale. The horror has seeped into the unconscious mind of the entire country.”
Betsy regarded him, her lips parted. Unconscious mind?
“There may be a nutcase out there who is sucking blood from the girls’ veins, mimicking the act of a vampire,” continued the detective. “Or perhaps simply letting the victims bleed to death by slitting the jugular vein. The girls are almost drained dry when their bodies are found.”
Betsy covered her mouth in shock.
A group of Czech tourists on holiday laughed at the table next to them. The incongruous sound made Betsy jump.
Chapter 44
ČACHTICE CASTLE
DECEMBER 23, 1610
The dwarf Fizko escorted Janos to the castle. The horsemaster studied his fishlike eyes, the flecks of spit that collected in the corners of his mouth. An idiot, he thought.
A sudden stench stopped Janos in his tracks as the walked by the castle garden.
“My God! What is that?”
Fizko stared blankly at Janos.
“The stink…it smells of dead animal!”
“Oh,” said Fizko, wagging his big head. “That is the rotting carcass of a horse. It is buried in the garden to fertilize the vegetables.”
Janos stopped.
“What are you talking about? The horses are under my care, no horse has died in these weeks!”
“Countess Bathory said it is a horse,” Fizko said, stubbornly. “That is what it is. Come along, you will be late. She will beat me.”
A wooden door studded with iron knobs the size of a man’s fist opened as they approached. Janos was ushered into a hall ablaze with scores of torches and hundreds of candles, flickering in crystal chandeliers.
Countess Bathory stood before him, her hair pulled back by a pearl-studded headdress. Her white linen sleeves puffed around her arms, her bodice was encrusted with gold embroidery. She wore a white silk apron—indicating her status as Hungarian nobility—over a crimson velvet dress.
“Please, come in, Pan Szilvasi,” she said. “I am eager for you to meet my houseguest and apprentice, the Countess Zichy of Ecsed.”
Janos bowed deeply. He was stunned once again by the Countess’s white marble complexion and piercing amber eyes. Erzsebet’s lips were stained red with berry juice, her dark auburn hair glossed with ambergris oil. The roots of her eyelashes were darkened with Turkish kohl.
She looked decades younger than Janos knew her to be.
The Countess offered her arm for Janos to escort her. He took her arm tentatively, knowing this was usually an honor reserved for noblemen.
He had a secret he was anxious to share with her, but he knew he had to wait. The right moment would come.
As they walked, Janos heard the stiff rustle of the Countess’s garments. A heavy floral scent rose from the fabric of her skirt. He noticed the delicacy of her wrist, tiny boned like the skeleton of a bird.
Countess Zichy of Ecsed was waiting in the anteroom of the dining room. She was dressed in a white apron over a Venetian silk dress.
“Countess Zichy, may I present my horsemaster, Janos Szilvasi.”
The Countess did not curtsy, but extended a limp hand toward Szilvasi.
“It is an honor,” he murmured, kissing the girl’s hand.
She arched an eyebrow at his kiss, saying nothing. Janos noticed how she withdrew her hand hastily from his lips.
“We shall dine immediately,” said Countess Bathory. She entered the dining room without further conversation, expecting her guests to follow.
“Whatever is that foul stench?” whispered Countess Zichy to Szilvasi. “It smells of putrid meat!”
Countess Bathory looked over her shoulder to see that her guests followed. Janos did not answer the young noblewoman’s question.
Despite the opulent table, the fine Bohemian crystal, and the wines from Hungary and Italy, Janos could not enjoy himself. The glint that flickered in the Countess’s eyes as she observed her guests was deeply unsettling.
“I trust you have found my handmaiden knowledgeable and efficient,” said Countess Bathory to the Countess Zichy, taking a sip of Tuscan wine.
“She has obviously trained under your skilled hand,” said the younger woman. She raised her chin. “You are much too generous to share her.”
Erzsebet met the girl’s
eyes.
“Is there a problem, Countess Zichy?”
“A problem? Certainly not. It is just that—”
“Please go on.”
“May I ask how she became so hideously deformed?”
Janos’s swallowed his wine clumsily, but he said nothing. Zuzana! She must be speaking of Zuzana.
Erzsebet flicked her eyes at him and then back to Countess Zichy.
“She contracted the pox as a young girl. I took pity on her.”
Countess Zichy dabbed her mouth with an embroidered napkin. “You are indeed the kindest noblewoman in Hungary. For she is ugly as an ogre.”
The Countess’s tinkling laugh filled the great dining hall.
Janos’s fingers tightened. He cleared his throat, hiding his hands in his lap.
“Yes, quite hideous,” agreed the Countess. She toyed with her silver knife. “But Zuzana serves her purpose dutifully and well. Those who serve me well are rewarded.”
The clink of silver against fine porcelain was heartless to Janos’s burning ears. He grasped his knife like a weapon, staring at his meat.
“And you, Horsemaster,” said Countess Zichy. “Tell me of the—stables. Surely Countess Bathory has the finest horses in all Hungary. Was not your husband the King’s Master of the Horse, Countess?”
“He served King Matthias in many capacities in the wars against the Ottomans, including financing the royal armies. Master of the Horse was just one of his titles,” the Countess said, frowning slightly. “But the Black Bey is the title he liked the most. It was given to him by the Ottomans, for there was no man they feared more in battle than Ferenc Nadasdy.”
“Count Nadasdy, Master of the Horse?” said Janos. “Indeed? Just as I am.”
“You are a horsemaster to me,” said the Countess quickly. “Not the same at all.”
“But my father is the horsemaster to King Matthias’s white stallions. Was not the white stallion I ride bred from one of the Habsburg royal studs?”
The Countess raised her glass to her lips. She swallowed a sip of wine before she answered. “And how do you know this?”
“The white horses of the royal stables are renowned, brought from Andalusia in Spain. His lineage is obvious.” He paused a moment. “Or perhaps the stallion told me himself, along with many other secrets of Čachtice Castle.”
Countess Bathory’s eyes flew to meet his. A black fly lit on her cheek and she swatted it away savagely.
“I jest, Countess—forgive me. And now for my news, Countesses, if I may,” said Szilvasi, sensing an advantage.
“News?”
“Yes. News I have been saving to share with you at this magnificent dinner.”
“What news?”
Janos cleared his throat, anticipating the Countess’s reaction.
“Good fortune has blessed the Szilvasi family, if you will forgive my boasting. King Matthias has knighted my father. He was given a fiefdom near Vienna.”
“Knighted? Your father?” said Countess Zichy, her face brightening. She clapped her hands in the air. “What wonderful news for you, Horsemaster! The King must be highly appreciative of your father’s service.”
The Countess said nothing, but a shadow passed over her face.
“Yes, my father is now nobility. And a great ally of our good King.”
Countess Bathory put down her fork. She glared at Janos.
“I correspond with my father constantly. He is always eager to hear about the conditions of the horses,” said Janos. “And about your health, Countess Bathory.”
He smiled and finally took a sip of his red wine, smacking his lips in appreciation. “Your grapes draw good flavor from such rocky soil, Countess,” he said. “Who would think fruit would thrive here in the stony-cold wilderness?”
He knew the Countess understood. As the son of a nobleman—the close friend of the King—Janos was now untouchable. He would survive.
Another pair of flies buzzed about his head. They lighted on Countess Bathory’s neck and cheek. She swatted them away.
“Curious there should be flies at this time of the year,” said Janos. “There have been several hard frosts and snow. To have the vermin at the Christmas season is rare indeed.”
Bathory gave him a chilly stare.
“There was a horse who died—one of the old nags the farmers drive to market. We buried it in the vegetable garden as fertilizer—a grave mistake, I realize now. The flies are born in the heat and rot of the carcass,” she said. She paused a moment, then pressed a hand to her white forehead with sudden urgency.
“You must excuse me. I feel a headache coming on.”
The footmen attending the table helped her from her chair. She disappeared, walking awkwardly into the great hall of Čachtice Castle.
Chapter 45
SOMEWHERE IN SLOVAKIA
DECEMBER 23, 2010
Grace was reading a leather-bound edition of The Moon and Sixpence when she heard the click of the lock. She looked up eagerly, hoping to see Draska. It had been days since she had seen the girl. Cool air rushed in from the drafty halls. The icy air gave her goose bumps and recognizing her visitor made her heart sink.
The Count greeted Grace with a curt bow.
“Good morning, Pani Path. I trust you slept well?”
Grace clenched her jaw so hard that her teeth hurt. She looked around the room for something to hurl at her captor. The book was slim, not enough heft. She wanted something breakable that would splinter into shards across his forehead.
“How dare you keep up this charade of politeness, you lunatic!”
The Count smirked. “Courtesy and good manners have always been a charade, my dear Dr. Path.”
“Just what is it that you think my daughter has?” Grace asked, slamming the book down on the desk.
“Mind the book, Madam. It is a first edition.”
“I am tired of all this secrecy. My daughter must be mad with worry.”
The Count walked over and picked up the abused novel. He placed it back on the bookshelf. Before he turned around, he said, “What if I were to tell you that she was in Slovakia at this very moment?”
“You lie!”
Count Bathory turned around, his lips set in what might be taken for a smile.
“Madam, you insult me. It is true. I have a contact who keeps me informed—most discreetly, of course—when certain individuals’ passports are registered. Your daughter has arrived in Slovakia.”
Grace was swept by waves of emotion. First happiness—then worry—then dread. She refused to give the Count the satisfaction of a response.
“I do not know where she is yet,” he continued smoothly. “But I have contacts in other places. It should not take long to track her down.”
Grace looked at his pleasant smile. It chilled her to the bone.
“May I remind you: All she has to do is to cooperate. Why would I want to hurt her?” He closed the door gently behind him. The key clicked in the lock.
Chapter 46
HOTEL ARCADIA
BRATISLAVA, SLOVAKIA
DECEMBER 23, 2010
The cell phone ringing woke Betsy from a dead sleep. She gasped, looking about the strange room, not recognizing her surroundings. Her heart thumped as she fumbled for the phone.
“Hello? Hello?”
“Betsy, it is Luis. Ringo is fine,” he said before she could ask. “Your house is fine. But I have someone here who wants to talk to you. Very important.”
“What? Who?”
“Hey, Betsy, it’s me. I made Luis call you, he won’t give me your number. But I had to call you. It’s not about me, it’s—”
“Daisy? Why are you calling me?” she said, sitting up in bed. She glanced at her watch. It was 10 in the morning. “What time is it there?”
“Two A.M. It took me all this time to convince Luis to call you. Betsy…there were men in the cemetery. They were…I’m sorry I don’t know how to tell you.”
“What?”
“They were digging up your father’s grave.”
“What?”
“We called the police and they scared them off. But I think they were looking for something.”
Betsy realized she had started to cry.
“Oh, my God! How…Why…Why were you there?”
“I’m sorry, Betsy.”
“Who? Who did this?”
“I don’t know. There were three men. Two digging and one watching. They spoke this really weird language. I don’t know what it was—”
“You called the police?”
“Yes, right away.”
Betsy raked her fingers through her hair. “This is my cell phone number. If you hear anything, rumors, anything—”
“I’ll call immediately. Absolutely.”
“And…thank you, Daisy. Thank you.”
Betsy hung up the phone. She dialed John’s room. “Please come over, something’s happened.”
Then she whispered, “I need you.”
Chapter 47
ČACHTICE CASTLE
DECEMBER 23, 1610
If she had a headache,” whispered Zuzana, walking beside Janos in the dark hall, “it could be a symptom of the falling disease. Of course she had to excuse herself. Within minutes she might fall into a fit.”
“The falling disease?” said Janos.
Zuzana nodded. “It is a trait of the Bathory family. Something must have upset her deeply to bring it on. She has not suffered an episode in several years. The servants who accompanied her from Ecsed to Sarvar said it was much worse when she was younger. The Countess had frequent tantrums and fits when she was a young child—kicking, biting her tongue, her eyes rolling up into her head.”
“There is evil in her blood,” said Janos. “Evil in the Bathory blood.”
Zuzana nodded. “Her nephew Gabor…”
“The Nero of Transylvania?” said Janos, his eyes narrowing in disgust.
“Yes, so you have heard the rumors at Sarvar Castle. Not one but two children conceived with his own sister, Anna. He is obsessed with the Bathory bloodline.”
“Pah! The Bathory blood!” snorted Janos. “The siblings both should be congratulated on keeping the stock utterly pure.”
House of Bathory Page 17
