by John Burke
Speculation came to a full stop there. It was unthinkable that anything should have happened to them. Alan was rich but not so rich that the things he carried with him were of any great value. And if it were some question of holding him to ransom, the difficulty of getting such a ransom from England would be enough to deter any but the most naïve brigand.
Charles went back to the bedrooms and examined them thoroughly to make sure that he had overlooked nothing. He found no further clues to the mystery.
From a corridor window he looked down into an inner courtyard. It lay in shadow, cool and inaccessible yet not in any way forbidding. Beyond the farther wall a dark file of trees marched up the mountainside, as stiffly erect and well-disciplined as a defensive line of troops.
Charles went on. He looked into empty bedrooms and into rooms quite devoid of furniture. The castle was neither a home nor a showplace. It had an air of dereliction about it . . . and yet, downstairs, there were the rugs and tapestries, and there had been a fire and food.
He decided to go down and explore the kitchens. There should be some trace of cooking. Perhaps Klove would appear again, and perhaps he could be persuaded to talk. Charles grimly assured himself that Klove would be persuaded, whether he liked it or not.
He turned back along the corridor.
Against one wall a tapestry swayed gently. It was one of the few decorative features of this austere floor. One got the impression that, apart from the contents of two or three bedrooms, everything decorative had been stripped from the upper parts of the castle and concentrated in the small civilized area downstairs.
Charles stopped. The tapestry was still swaying, and there was a cold draught about his ankles. Yet none of the windows was open, and in any case the wind was not attacking this side of the building.
He drew back one fringe of the tapestry. Before him was a dark opening. The light touched a few steps spiralling steeply down, and then they were swallowed up in the blackness.
Alan, walking along here, could have found this same opening. But why should he have been walking . . . why had he gone down . . . and why should Helen have followed him?
Charles hesitated. Two people had disappeared. Whatever had drawn them down, or perhaps been waiting for them at the bottom, could still be alive and greedy.
Alive . . . in this deserted castle of death?
Charles started down the steps.
He had to bend low to avoid bumping his head on the arched rock ceiling. As the light from above faded, a faint shaft fell across the steps from a narrow slit in the wall. This must come, he surmised, from the courtyard he had inspected from above. He would have expected a door to open from the stairway into the yard or, on the other side, into a room adjoining the hall; but the steps went on down without a break until he knew he must be well below ground level.
At last the steps immediately ahead of him were touched with grey light. He reached the bottom; and found himself looking out across a cavernous cellar.
On a plinth in the centre there rested a coffin.
Charles appraised the cellar in detail before moving out into it. At each step he looked from side to side. He had no intention of being taken by surprise. He was alert and tense.
Letters had been carved in the plinth. He stood a few feet away and read the name:
COUNT DRACULA
So this was the last resting-place of the man whose hospitality had seemed so munificent last night. Charles thought it strange and rather sad that there should be just this one, solitary occupant of the cellar. It would surely have been more appropriate to inter him in a family vault, surrounded by other members of his line.
He stepped to one side, automatically moving with the quietness which one reverently adopts near tombs and old graveyards.
And he saw that the lid of the coffin was propped against a pillar.
From this angle he could not see into the coffin itself, raised as it was on the plinth. But it was plain that the upper edges were the edges of the box itself and that there was no lid in place. Curiosity drove him towards it . . . and conventional respect held him back.
In the shadow of the plinth was a large trunk, its lid closed, but, he observed, not secured. For a moment he hesitated. Then he bent over it and lifted the lid.
Alan’s face stared up at him. The head was in a twisted unnatural position. At first the horror of it did not strike fully home. Then Charles saw why the proportions were wrong, why Alan’s head could not possibly be where it was. And he saw that in spite of all impossibility, all the nightmarish evil of it, it was really there—the severed head dumped crookedly on the chest of the decapitated body.
Blood stained what was left of the neck and darkened Alan’s clothes. The body was somehow shrunken: the loss of blood could not be entirely accounted for by the stains on the corpse and around the sides of the box.
Charles clutched his stomach. He gagged, bent double, tried desperately not to be sick. When he straightened up, panting, with a cold sweat trickling from his forehead down into his eyes, he had just the strength to slam the lid of the box down.
He tried to move away. His legs would hardly support him. He reached out and propped himself for a moment against the plinth; and the inscription on the side swam before his eyes.
Inside the coffin, close beside his head, something stirred.
Charles stayed where he was. He didn’t believe it. The noise was something in his head: it couldn’t be anything else.
Again it came. A faint rustling, a slight shifting.
He gathered up his strength and put one hand on the edge of the coffin. He pulled himself up for a second and looked inside.
Swathed in a black cloak with a faint rim of scarlet lining showing, a man lay on his back with his hands tranquilly on his chest. But the hands were cruel talons, and the face was not that of a corpse peacefully at rest: it was lean and predatory, the lips lifted at the corners by a gleam of yellowing fangs. It could have been a noble face, but evil had wrought its work more terribly than any mere corruption of the flesh.
Charles swayed. And as his fingers slipped from the edge of the coffin, the creature inside slowly opened its eyes and shifted again in its waking tremor.
Charles heard his own voice lifted in a howl like that of a mad dog. He fell to the floor, scrabbled along pitifully on his knees, and then forced himself upright. He lurched towards the spiralling flight of steps and began to stumble up them.
6
The fire spluttered dismally and then emitted a hiccup of acrid yellowish smoke which stung Diana’s eyes and made her cough. She had been trying to build up at least a reassuring glow in the corner of the hut, but the wood was damp and the draught was all wrong.
Wearily she sat back on her heels.
The light was fading. Already the interior of the hut was lost in dusk, intensified by the drifting smoke. She wanted the fire more for its brightness than its warmth—and she was getting neither.
She bent forward to blow on the dwindling flames again, and then stopped. Faintly, from far away, there came the jingle of harness.
Diana got up and went to the window. She rubbed aside strands of cobweb and greasy smears, and looked out at the crossroads.
Into sight, slowing as they came, trotted the black horses, drawing the coach as they had drawn it the night before. Diana pressed her snub nose against the window.
The coach drew up, grinding into silence, at the crossroads. The horses paced, chafed, and were still. Diana edged along the pane and from this angle saw that there was nobody sitting on the box. The horses rubbed ears together and again pawed the ground. The coach waited. Its presence seemed to threaten the hut.
Diana turned uneasily away from the window.
The door was open. A tall dark shape was silhouetted against the evening light.
Diana stifled a cry.
Klove said: “I startled you again, madam. I am so sorry.”
She was partially relieved. But only partially.
He was at his most deferential. “Your husband sent me to fetch you in the carriage, madam. He will explain everything to you.”
He was holding the warped door open as though it were the door of a luxurious ante-chamber and some noble personage waited beyond.
“But where’s Alan?” Diana burst out. “Where did they go—the other lady and gentleman?”
“Your husband will explain everything to you.”
Klove stood aside. She thought of his sly attitude the night before and the insolence of his apparent politeness; and she was sure she ought to stay where she was. But Charles had gone back to the castle, and Klove had driven down from the castle, and . . .
Diana walked to the door. Klove stood aside with a servile bow.
She had the leather seat of the coach to herself. Klove drove the horses back towards the castle. It was hard to believe that there might be any menace lurking up there, above the snows and beyond the dark trees. The coach was in splendid condition. The pace of the horses was steadier than it had been last night. She was being courteously taken back to a place which, after all, had offered her and the others a rich welcome less than twenty-four hours ago.
The wheels thundered across the bridge, struck an echo from the archway, and went on over the cobbles of the courtyard. When it jolted to a halt, Klove sprang down and had the door open for Diana before she was prepared for it.
“This way,” he said with a bow so obsequious that she felt he must be mocking her.
They went towards the main door. Klove was behind her, but as she raised a hand to push the door he leaped ahead and swung it open so that she could walk through.
Diana entered the hall. Behind her the door slammed, back with a sonorous reverberation. She turned to protest.
There was nobody there. Klove had remained on the outside.
Diana sprang at the door and seized the fine-wrought bronze handle. She pulled without result. The door remained obstinately closed.
“We’ve been waiting for you.” The voice was quiet and encouraging. It was a familiar voice, coaxing her to turn round. “We wondered when you’d come back.”
She turned.
Helen stood at the foot of the stairs. She wore a nightdress and her usually sleek hair was tousled as though she had only a few minutes earlier been rudely awakened from slumber. She had always been brittle and unbending. Now, in some inexplicable way, she was even more harsh . . . yet with an incongruous cooing, seductive note in her voice.
“You’ve been a long time, Diana.”
The relief was overpowering. Diana felt weak and hilarious at one and the same time. She laughed idiotically and hurried across the hall.
“Where’s Charles? We’ve been so worried. We just couldn’t imagine what . . .”
The words dissolved. Helen had always been haughty and had often puckered her face up into a schoolmistress’s derisiveness. But not quite like this. Malevolence seemed to ooze out of her. She was poised, ready to strike. “There’s something wrong,” said Diana. “There’s something . . . Helen, where’s Alan?”
“There is nothing the matter. Come . . . sister.”
Helen’s hand was stretched out. Diana backed away.
“Where’s Charles?”
“You don’t want Charles.”
Diana tried to keep her face set so that it should betray nothing. She knew that what she saw was no longer Alan’s wife, no longer a recognizable Helen. There was danger here such as she had never conceived. She measured her distances without appearing to do so, then turned and ran.
Helen laughed wildly.
The door was open. Diana raced towards the opening and found it suddenly blocked. A man in a dark cloak stepped before her without haste, with the grace of a dancer; or the grace of a fastidious killer selecting his prey.
Still Helen was laughing.
The cloak flew back like wings from the man’s shoulders. His arms swept up, and the talons closed on Diana.
She struck back into that devilish face but he did not even wince. His grip did not slacken. Diana was lifted almost off her feet and swung round. He started towards the stairs, dragging her with him.
“Dracula . . . let her go!”
Diana sobbed with relief. It was Charles’s voice. She twisted to one side so that she could see him.
Helen moved quickly to the side door through which he had come. She took his arm.
“Dear Charles . . . let me kiss you.”
Charles was looking not at Helen but at his wife. He took a step forward. Helen clung to him; and Dracula held firmly to Diana as she struggled to be free.
Helen’s head turned and moved insidiously in upon Charles. There was something so animal in it that he reacted—turned, stared incredulously at the bestiality of the slowly opening mouth, and then with a sweep of his arm sent her stumbling away from him.
Diana gave a last desperate tug. She wrenched herself free of Dracula’s clawing hand, and ran to Charles. All she wanted to do was throw herself into his arms and shelter there until the nightmare faded around them. But Charles caught her and pushed her unceremoniously behind him, not taking his eyes off Dracula.
“Get away,” he said tersely. “Take the coach.”
“I can’t leave you—”
“Do as I say.”
Dracula paced towards them. He did not seem perturbed by what had happened. Like a cat with two mice, he was quiveringly alert and enjoying himself. If he lost one, he would certainly claim the other.
Diana could not bear to go. But Charles jerked his hand towards the door, and reluctantly she left him and ran across the open space—a space as vast as a great plain, with no shelter and no succor.
Helen laughed again. She sprang. Diana’s arm was seized, and she was whirled off balance in a staggering rush against one wall.
And Dracula reached Charles.
Charles lashed out. With contemptuous ease, Dracula lowered his head, picked Charles up, and threw him across the hall. Charles hit the wall some distance away with a terrifying thud and slumped to the ground. He shook his head, trying to force himself up from his knees. Dracula chuckled and advanced on him.
Charles staggered up with his back against the wall. He looked frantically around for some sort of weapon.
A few feet away was a dusty sword which had fallen from a display on the wall as he hit it. Charles flung himself sideways and grabbed for the hilt. When he regained his balance he stood waiting, the sword jutting towards the approaching Dracula.
Diana tried to fight off Helen, but could not make any headway. The two women slackened off for a moment, both watching the men who were about to meet.
Charles lunged.
The sword drove savagely at Dracula. The black cloak swirled like a taunt, Dracula evaded the thrust . . . and grasped the blade of the sword in his hand. Charles twisted the hilt, fighting to free the blade and to strike again.
Blood poured from Dracula’s hand as the blade twisted in his grip. He smiled. Abruptly he gave a sharp jerk, and the sword was dragged from Charles’s fist.
Dracula raised it in both hands and snapped it as though it were a twig. He dropped the two pieces at his feet and, with contemptuous slowness, reached out and fastened his raw, bloody hands on Charles’s throat. He began to squeeze.
Charles sagged, both supported by those hands and dying because of them.
Diana screamed. She fought Helen like a madwoman. As they wrestled out into the middle of the hall, her sleeve was torn and the lace at her throat fell away. The small gold crucifix which her mother had left her swayed forward and brushed up Helen’s arm.
This time it was Helen who screamed. She let Diana go and tottered backwards, gasping for breath.
Diana swayed. She, too, was panting for breath. Then she understood. She took the crucifix between two fingers and raised it.
Helen cowered.
“Charles . . . !”
>
Charles’s eyes were bursting from his head. His hands groped slackly, finding nothing, without strength. Dracula nodded gently, taking his time over the exquisite pleasure.
“A cross!” Diana cried. “Charles—make a cross!”
She stumbled towards them. But Charles had heard. He sagged to one side, letting Dracula take all his weight, and grabbed at the two fragments of broken sword. Clumsily, with hardly the strength to hold them, he passed one piece of blade over another in the form of a cross.
Then he forced himself up again and raised the cross before Dracula’s very eyes.
Dracula’s fixed, almost sleepy grin of satisfaction turned to a snarl of rage. He released Charles and backed away, hissing with anger and frustration.
Diana reached Charles and helped him to his feet. He rested against her, almost spent, but with sufficient strength to keep the two pieces of sword blade in position.
They backed towards the main door.
Dracula and Helen faced them but with their eyes down, glancing at them every now and then, blinking and moaning as though the light were too strong.
Diana glanced over her shoulder to estimate the remaining distance.
The door had opened. Klove was stepping into the hall, a knife drawn.
Diana cried out and pulled Charles to one side.
Klove threw himself into the hall with the knife raised. Charles allowed the cross to break and struck out with the swaying length of blade which bore the hilt. It smacked savagely against the side of Klove’s head, and the manservant went down, his knife skidding away across the floor.
Charles grabbed Diana’s arm. They ran out into the courtyard.
The solid blackness of the coach and horses was just visible against the hazier darkness of the night. Charles pushed Diana swiftly up on to the box and sprang up beside her. He whipped up the horses with a peremptory shout that drove them instinctively forward, and then swung their heads round towards the gate.
Diana looked back. Silhouetted in the doorway were the gesticulating, writhing shapes of Dracula and Helen. They seemed to blend for a moment, as though Helen had put her arms round the creature’s neck and drawn him amorously towards her. Then there were two again—Dracula striding out into the night, shaking his fists after the coach, raising his arms and cloak and then receding indistinguishably into the gloom.
