by Sean Little
Even though he knew it was probably useless, Clarke ventured to the small second story and looked at the bedrooms. The beds were rumpled and unmade. Clarke turned to go, but a memory stopped him. Vasile said the undertaker, his wife, and his three children were murdered by the werewolf. There was no blood on the sheets or floors, not even the fake blood like at the cave. Surely, the werewolf didn’t strangle them to death. Strange, Clarke thought. He pulled a box of matches from his pocket and used one to light a candle by the bedside. He moved the light over the beds and the floors. There wasn’t a single sign that a murder had occurred. He moved back to the ground floor and examined the floors. They were swept clean and free of blood.
Clarke descended the interior stairs to the small, cool basement that served as the undertaker’s morgue. Even there, there was no blood, except for a small pool of dried blood near where the man had stored his buckets and mops.
The small side door that led outside was definitely damaged. Judging from the shreds, it looked like something large with large claws tried to break into the morgue and eventually succeeded. Clarke had seen doors attacked by bears in the Yukon that looked similar. Other than that, the house was perfectly normal. Undisturbed.
It didn’t make any sense.
Clarke didn’t like things that didn’t make sense.
He slipped back upstairs and out of the house. In his mind, no blood meant that family wasn’t murdered. Kidnapped, maybe. But where were they being hidden?
The cave was the only place that made logical sense. There was nothing in the cave, though. Clarke thought about the cog. And the crack in the wall. And the fear force. Bobbins had wanted him to poke around other homes, but Clarke’s gut told him that might be fruitless. People were stuck in their homes. There wouldn’t be anything to be found there. The mystery was the cave.
Clarke wondered if this little town had a library, or some sort of town hall where records might be kept. He’d need Vasile, Csupo, or Andrei, though. He was fairly certain the little Romanian town hadn’t been keeping records in English.
Clarke crept back outside, slipping out the door and making sure it stayed shut with a twig jammed into the crack between the door and jamb. He walked back to the main street.
Bobbins’ presence had transformed the town. It had become a bustling, happy village from out of a storybook. The baker’s window was thrown open and people were buying bread. The butcher’s cart was being thronged. The little general goods shop was jammed full as people sought to restock their supplies. Like the carnival atmosphere at the castle the day before, music and joy had returned to Cărbunasatul. In the center of it all was Lord Bobbins. He seemed to be everywhere at once, always smiling, always chattering with the people. Vasile stood at his elbow as translator. Ms. Shaw, always vigilant, stood a few paces off. Clarke couldn’t help but be impressed by the man’s enthusiasm and vigor.
Clarke saw Csupo flirting with some girl, no doubt telling her how he saved Vasile from the strigoi. He walked up to the diminutive man and tapped him on the shoulder. Csupo jumped out of his skin and screamed like a child.
“Oh, Mr. Clarke! Don’t do that!” said Csupo. He tried to compose himself and save what little dignity he still had. The young woman snickered and said something in Romanian. Then, she walked off. Csupo waved, keeping a brave smile on his face until she was no longer looking at him. His smile fell. He looked defeated.
“Sorry, buddy. I need your help.”
Csupo shrugged. “It is fine, Mr. Clarke. I didn’t have any hope with her anyhow. Her mother hates me.”
“Why?”
“Because she thinks I am beneath her daughter because I’m just a stable boy and handyman.”
“Csupo, some of the finest people I’ve ever known were stable boys and handymen.”
“Really, Mr. Clarke?”
“Really. If her mother can’t see quality, then it’s too bad for her. Now, listen—do you have a library in this town?”
Csupo shook his head. “There are some books in the school and the church that people are welcome to read, but no library. Some people have very small private collections, but the man who runs our bank—his is the biggest.”
“I’m not looking for books. I’m looking for records. A history of the town. That sort of thing.”
Csupo thought for a moment. “The basement of the church. That holds a lot of papers and books. I think that’s what you’d be looking for, Mr. Clarke.”
The church was old like most things in the town. The timbers that built it were sturdy, though. Like many small, religious villages, the artisanship and care that went into the construction of the church was unsurpassed in the rest of the community. Houses slapped together with mud-and-daub were fine for families, but the house of the Lord would be a masterpiece. This one was large, a monolith of a building built as a long hall with a large altar area. The nave, where the pews were lined, was narrow, but a vaulted ceiling made the area seem larger. At the narthex, a large four-story steeple rose into the air where the belfry was housed. On Sundays, the bells in that tower would ring and be heard for miles.
Inside, the church smelled of candle wax and age. Dust motes hung in the light from windows. They were undisturbed by any draft—another signature of the quality of construction. The pews were small and narrow, polished to a high shine by years of use and loving care. The apse of the building was elevated. There was a large pulpit where a massive Bible sat. The altar was bare; there would be no service today.
Csupo pulled the yellow wool cap from his head when he and Clarke passed the transom. Clarke removed his hat, as well. He wasn’t particularly religious, but it never hurt to show proper respect.
“The records will be down in the basement, Mr. Clarke.” Csupo gestured to a set of stairs in the rear corner of the church.
From somewhere at the front of the church, a voice called out in Romanian. Csupo answered, his voice not overly loud, but it filled the large, high-ceilinged room just the same.
The village priest emerged from the back of the church. He wore the simple brown robes of a friar and had a wild mane of graying hair. He wore his beard long, more salt than pepper at this point in his life. The friar saw Csupo and said something in Romanian.
Csupo answered in English. “This is Mr. Nicodemus Clarke. He is here with Lord Bobbins to investigate the troubles.” Turning to Clarke, Csupo said, “This is our priest, Brother Paschal.”
The friar frowned. “Lord Bobbins’ man, yes. Mr. Clarke, very good to meet you.” The friar spoke perfect English. There was something about the way he said Bobbins’ name that didn’t sit well with Clarke, as if it tasted bad to him. The friar strode down the center aisle of the church and offered a hand. He had no Romanian accent. Clarke couldn’t place the man’s accent. It was strange, possibly corrupted from a lifetime of moving between different areas, as many friars do.
“It is good to meet you, as well,” said Clarke. “You’re not Romanian.”
“No. I was a Spaniard by birth, raised predominantly in England and Norway, and I took my vows after schooling extensively in Germany.”
“A well-traveled man.”
“As are you, from what I understand.”
Clarke smiled and bowed his head slightly. “I’ve been known to get around.”
“You travel with Lord Bobbins, then?”
“Only this trip. I’ve only met him recently.”
The friar shook his head. “I don’t know what to think of this man with a title that elevates him to God’s level. I know it’s a British thing, but I’m against it. From what I hear of Bobbins, he might think himself a savior or deity. He certainly seems to be out of touch with the teachings of today’s church. He grandstands. He seems to forget what the Bible said about modesty.”
Clarke felt uneasy. “I can’t speak for the man’s piousness, but he seems to think clearly and have his heart in the right place. He loves his neighbor. Doesn’t the Bible say a lot about that, as well?”
; “At what cost, though? This village is cursed, Mr. Clarke. Dark omens and bad tidings are afoot. They came here after your Bobbins character took the deed to the castle. What does that tell you?”
“Bad timing?” said Clarke.
Brother Paschal shook the dark look from his face. He forced a smile to his face and changed the subject. “Are you here for Confession? I’m afraid I don’t usually begin to hear them until ten. I suppose for a visitor from America I might make an exception.”
“No, Brother,” said Csupo. “We are here to look at the records in the basement.”
Brother Paschal looked at them like they’d just said they’d like to fly to the moon. “Good heavens. Whatever for?”
“Mr. Clarke wants to see if he can find anything relevant to the troubles in our history.”
Paschal’s face was a mask of confusion, as if he didn’t process what they were doing. “Ah, well. So be it. You know where they are, Csupo. Try not to leave a mess.”
“Thank you, Brother.”
Paschal nodded at both of them and returned to his offices behind the apse of the church.
“Here, Mr. Clarke,” said Csupo, ushering Clarke to the stairs. “We shall see what we can see.” Clarke followed Csupo to the cellar of the church. Csupo paused at the bottom of the stairs to light three candles and stick them in a holder. “We don’t possess a lot of the modern conveniences here. No ‘lecktik lights, I’m afraid.”
“Electric,” Clarke corrected him.
“E-lec-tric,” Csupo formed the syllables carefully.
“How long has Brother Paschal been the friar here? He’s a Dominican, isn’t he?”
Csupo frowned. “He might be. I’m not certain. He wears a black cloak over brown robes in public.”
“Dominican friar,” said Clarke. “They usually don’t stay too long. A few years at most, and then they move on to the next town.”
Csupo counted on his fingers. “Brother has been our priest for two years now. Almost three.”
“Good guy?”
“Very good, sir. Everyone loves him. Before he came, our church was without its own priest. We used a layman from another village, but it was a long trip for him, so he only came twice a month. We are very lucky to have Brother Paschal now.”
The basement was as long as the church, but the ceiling was very low and the beams that supported the wood floor above made Clarke have to duck his head each time he came to one. The basement seemed to be primarily a storage area. Crates and boxes of various kinds were stacked neatly in the corners. Decorations, old altar drapes, and boxes of tinned foods were stacked on shelves along the walls. Farther in, Clarke could see the walls were lined with large wooden bookshelves, all stained to a deep black, and they were lined with books, ledgers, and papers of all sorts. It looked like a mess at first glance, but after a moment of surveying the pile, something of an order was apparent.
Csupo pulled down three large, leather-bound books from the top left corner of the shelves. “These are the town’s history. They started keeping track of it about seventy years ago.”
“Good. Let’s start there,” said Clarke. He took a seat on a crate. “I want you to look for anything that might be relevant.”
Csupo blanched. “Me?”
“I can’t read Romanian, Csupo. It has to be you.”
Csupo swallowed hard and nodded. “Okay, then. What am I looking for, exactly?”
“Anything that might give a clue to why this stuff started. Look for words like werewolf or strigoi or curse or anything else that might lend a clue to why this town is being plagued right now.”
Csupo opened the first book on a crate and brought the candles to illuminate the pages. “I will try, sir.”
“And see if you can find any reason why this town might somehow be wealthy.”
“Wealthy? Us? You’ve seen our homes, Mr. Clarke. No one here is wealthy. We are simple people struggling to drag a living out of the mountains and the poor soil.”
Clarke shrugged. “Just because no one here is wealthy doesn’t mean that you’re not a potentially wealthy town. The mine might have gems in it, for example.”
“The mine has coal and stone. If the miners found gems, we’d know about it.”
“Coal is profitable,” said Clarke.
“Not to miners,” said Csupo.
“True enough,” said Clarke. He’d grown up in coal country. The only person who got rich from coal was the owner of the mine.
Csupo dutifully began scanning pages. He leaned close to the book, finger sliding down the page while his eyes tried to take in as many of the words as possible. His mouth moved in silent reading. Page after page went by. Csupo closed the first book and shelved it. The second and third book followed. “I saw nothing out of the ordinary,” he said. “Just boring town information. Births. Deaths. Land transactions. Celebrations.”
Clarke touched the scruff of beard on his cheek. It was itchy. He needed a shave. “Land is always suspect. The seller always thinks it’s worth twice what anyone is willing to pay, and the government always wants to tax it at three times what it’s actually worth.”
“Maybe in big land deals, but these are just boring little trades of farmland. Nothing to go through such trouble.”
The cave. The “werewolf.” The “murders.” What was going on in this town?
Clarke got up and peered through all the rest of the papers. “What are all these?”
Csupo shrugged and began shuffling through them. “Marriage contracts. Trading contracts. Bills of sale.”
“Any with the names of any of the victims on it?”
“I could look, Mr. Clarke. It might take some time.”
“You do that, then. Point me toward the bathhouse in town.”
The bathhouse was run by a large, elderly woman. She kept water boiling in large copper pots over a considerable fire and filled the baths fresh for each paying customer. The washtubs were wooden slat-buckets large enough for a man to sit down in and get water up to his navel, but not really the luxurious body-length ceramic claw-foot tubs that Clarke was used to in America. The soap was plentiful, though. He scrubbed himself with a stiff-bristled brush until his skin felt just shy of raw. The woman poured a bucket of warm water over him for rinsing.
The woman presented him with a steamed towel and a straight razor that could have taken off a finger. In the span of a few moments, Clarke was able to rid himself of several days of growth with only two little nicks to show for it. The bathhouse provided all manner of post-shave lotions and salves. Clarke picked one with a pleasant aroma and slapped it on his face. Human again, he paid the woman a full silver bit, even though the going rate was far less. He’d soon be rich, he reasoned. He could afford to make someone’s day.
Exiting the bathhouse, Clarke checked the street. Bobbins was still holding full court in the town. He was seated at an outdoor table in front of a small pub playing checkers with someone. People were crowded around him laughing and watching his every move. Bobbins was feeding on the attention like a hummingbird at a rose. Every round of laughter only served to make him more gregarious, more jovial. Just behind him, Dolly Shaw stood like a statue, overseeing the crowd with hawk-like eyes. If anyone tried anything, Clarke had no doubt they would meet a rude and speedy end at her hands.
Clarke walked back to the church basement and found Csupo surrounded by piles of paper. The little Romanian had found something. He held up land deeds as Clarke walked down the stairs. “Mr. Clarke! Look at this! I think this is it!”
Clarke took the papers from Csupo and glanced at them. They were in Romanian, but they looked like standard land contracts. Country to country, they didn’t vary much. “What am I looking at?”
Csupo pointed with a finger. “This is the forfeiture of Castle Bobbins almost ten years ago. Apparently, a man held the deed, but he let the castle go into disrepair, so the town claimed it from him. He took the town to court, but lost.”
“What happened to the man? Wha
t was his name?”
“His name was Dr. Sigwald Enwright. He was a German. The deed doesn’t say what happened to him. I guess he went back to Germany.”
“What happened to the castle?” asked Clarke.
“As far as I can tell, it went back into the family the built it, but they were no longer living in town. It filtered down to Lord Bobbins through strange channels and deals with the proviso that he repair the castle and contribute the town economy. He bought it very cheaply.”
Enwright. It wasn’t much, but it was a lead. What kind of doctor was he, Clarke wondered. He clapped Csupo on the shoulder. “Well done, lad. Well done.”
“You think this is the reason the troubles started?”
Clarke folded the land deed and stuck it into the inner pocket of his jacket. “It’s as good a reason as any.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Genius
Bobbins listened to Clarke and Csupo’s report while sitting in a wingback chair in front of the hearth in the grand hall. He stroked his mustache with his fingertips while he did. Shaw, as usual, lurked in the corner shadows.
“Does the name Enwright mean anything to you?” asked Clarke.
“Not a thing,” said Bobbins. “Never heard it before in my life. It does seem that if someone has a reason to seek revenge against this town, and especially the owner of this castle, it could be him. Tomorrow, I shall return to town and wire my contacts in Germany to see if they can find more information on him.” Bobbins frowned. “I very much dislike not having access to the wire here at the castle. Sandsworth, do look into remedying that for me, please.”
“Very good, sir.” The austere butler bowed his head slightly.
“Come to think of it, though,” said Bobbins, “I do know a Cartwright.”
Clarke frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?”
