by Sarah Rayne
And now this nun – this efficient organiser who had been devout and a bit shy and enthusiastic about her work – was dead; she had been butchered at Ladislas Bathory’s hands. It was so dreadful as to be scarcely believable.
At Hilary’s side, Reverend Mother reached for the crucifix that hung at her waist. Hilary thought: it is her instinctive act, to reach out for God. She reaches for God while I can feel only anger and a wish to punish the animal who did this. She discovered with a shock that the fingers of both her hands were actually curving into predator’s claws. I should like to tear out Ladislas Bathory’s heart for this. It could not be said. It ought not to have been thought.
Hilary turned to Reverend Mother, remembering that she was not young – probably she was well beyond seventy years of age – and that she had the uniform pallor and the slight blue lips of one whose heart is not as robust as it might be. When Hilary put out a tentative hand, Reverend Mother took it gratefully.
Hilary said, ‘Could we be quiet for a little while, Herr Wagner? Do you need to ask any more questions for the moment?’
The grey eyes took in Reverend Mother’s pallor and silence.
‘No,’ said Wagner. ‘No, we shall need to be in here for a little while.’ He regarded Hilary thoughtfully. ‘I need to know where you will be, of course. And to request that you do not leave the house.’
‘I understand. We shall be in Reverend Mother’s study.’
One of the scullery nuns had banked up the fire in the study and the coffee pot had been placed in the hearth to keep it warm. Sister Clothilde had brought in some of the convent’s precious hoard of brandy – ‘Just a tiny sip for medicinal purposes, Reverend Mother.’
Despite the horror of everything, Hilary smiled inwardly. That joke again: purely medicinal, and down went a large double brandy. She reached out and poured a generous measure of the brandy into the coffee, and watched Reverend Mother drink it gratefully. A little of the frightening blue look faded from her lips. She said, half to herself, ‘Sister Thérèse, that good, gifted child. So much still to give. To die in that way . . .’ She frowned and appeared to push away the thoughts. ‘God takes where He chooses, of course,’ she said. ‘And death is something to celebrate.’ Hilary had the impression that she had pushed away the shock and the horror and was calling up a lifetime of beliefs and trust. Death is something to celebrate . . .
Reverend Mother was mentally rolling up her sleeves, ready to deal with what came next, and when she said, ‘That was a very remarkable story you unfolded to Herr Wagner,’ Hilary heard with relief the authoritative note. Richard’s himself again . . . Ready for the fray . . . I think I’m becoming hysterical. Would she let me have a sip of that brandy, I wonder?
She said carefully, ‘You understand why I did not tell what had happened when I returned?’
‘Because, “there are truths which are not for all men, nor for all times” perhaps?’
It felt like a test, as conversation with Reverend Mother sometimes did. Hilary remembered that Reverend Mother was French, and said, ‘Is that Voltaire?’
It was not quite a bow drawn at a venture, but she was absurdly pleased when Reverend Mother said, ‘It is. Although he also said that, while he was fond of truth, he was not at all fond of martyrdom. He tilted at windmills many times, Voltaire, and sometimes he came to grief. I am talking irrationalities to avoid facing the truth, you understand.’ A pause. ‘Truth should be respected at all times, Hilary. The fear of martyrdom should not weigh. Nor the fear of ridicule.’
Hilary said in a low voice, ‘If I had spoken out, perhaps this would not have happened. I am aware of that.’
‘Well, you should not feel responsible. That would be nearly a sin of pride.’ Hilary looked up and Reverend Mother said, ‘Wouldn’t it be pride to think you had brought about a death? Death is for God to deal out. He has His plan, even though it is sometimes hard for us to fathom it.’ Hilary drew breath to object and thought better of it. Instead, she said, ‘Did you believe me?’
‘About Catherine Bathory’s family?’ There was a pause, and Hilary had the sudden, strong impression that Reverend Mother was weighing something in the balance. But when she spoke, it was in an ordinary voice. She said, ‘Oh yes, my dear. Yes I believed you. I question the premise of immortality for any of God’s creatures, of course, but I believe you saw and heard precisely what you told Herr Wagner.’ A pause. ‘You see, this was her house.’
‘I don’t – whose house?’
‘The Countess’s. Elizabeth Bathory – Elizabeth Nádasdy as she should be correctly known, since she married only the one husband,’ said Reverend Mother, a stickler for accuracy. ‘But it is as Bathory her legend has been preserved.’
‘I had never heard of her,’ said Hilary. ‘Should I have done?’
‘She is not so widely known as all that, although her tale has been told at times.’ The quirk of humour that made Reverend Mother a far warmer person than many other religeuses, flared. ‘She surfaces now and then, mainly at the hands of Gothic novelists, and even the occasional film-maker. But she has been overshadowed by the Irish writer, of course.’
‘Who – oh yes, Bram Stoker.’ Hilary kept forgetting that Stoker had been Irish. ‘And – she lived here? Elizabeth Bathory? It was rather eerie to be hearing all this. It was even eerier to come upon such matter-of-fact acceptance of Elizabeth’s existence.
‘Yes, she lived here,’ said Reverend Mother. ‘This was – what today might be called her town-house. She would have stayed here when there were Court functions to attend with her husband, or perhaps to entertain the important people of the day.’
‘I understand.’ The creature talked of by Pál and Anna in Csejthe Castle had been an ephemeral thing to Hilary until now. A chimera but a dark, blood-drenched chimera. A will o’ the wisp, steeped in her own evil legend. Now, in the quiet study, listening to Reverend Mother’s soft voice, Elizabeth was a chimera no longer. She was real, thought Hilary. She lived. She lived in this house. She did quite ordinary things here. For some reason this ordinariness made Elizabeth suddenly much more sinister. The dark, bloody mask beneath the smooth façade. Aloud she said, ‘You – forgive me Reverend Mother – but you know a good deal about her.’
‘That she lived here is not a thing we would wish to be known to many,’ said Reverend Mother. ‘Not because of the sin of pride, but because the Countess was an immensely evil woman. Cruel beyond imagination. And we would not wish to deter novices from entering our Order, or patients from coming to our infirmary.’
‘And – there are truths which are not for all men, nor for all times?’ said Hilary, and grinned for the first time that night.
‘Impertinent child,’ said Reverend Mother without rancour, and stood up. ‘Come, I will show you.’
Herr Wagner’s men were in the corridors outside, and the young, eager-eyed Bremner looked up. Hilary felt Reverend Mother hesitate and felt, as well, the horror of what had happened deal her a fresh blow. But she fixed Bremner with a steady look and said, ‘Would you have the kindness to tell the Chief Inspector that Sister Hilary and I will be in the library for a little time,’ and Bremner nodded.
The library was dark and filled with clustering shadows. Sister Margaret or one of her helpers had apparently stoked up a boiler somewhere because, as they entered, Hilary heard a chuckle of sound from the hot water in the pipes feeding the old-fashioned iron radiators. Was it the pipes? Or was it someone standing in the shadows, perhaps half concealed in the deep alcove at the far end of the room, laughing not-quite-silently? Were the shadows red-tinted, as if someone had lain dying in the room, bleeding into the shadows? Hilary remembered Sister Thérèse and shivered.
And then Reverend Mother reached for the light switches and glad yellow light flooded the room, picking out the crucifix with its beautiful tortured figure over the mantel. The shadows vanished at once and, after all, the library was a perfectly ordinary room, the kind you would find in any ancient house in any coun
try in Europe. Books and manuscripts lined the walls, and two or three leather-topped tables stood at the centre. The heavy curtains were drawn across the windows, shutting out the night, but Hilary, glancing at the clock, saw that it was five a.m and knew that the grey dawn would be stealing across the square outside.
Reverend Mother went to the small desk which held the rather simplistic but efficient index, and flipped through the listings. Once or twice she paused as if she might have found what she sought, but each time she gave an impatient shake of her head and went on. But after a few minutes she took from one of the shelves a slender, vellum-bound book, the cover faded and the engraved book-plate worn and virtually indistinguishable.
Reverend Mother held the book between her palms for a moment. ‘The minutes of the Countess’s trial,’ she said, and quite suddenly the room which had been made warm and safe, and which had had the little homely gurglings of water along the skirtings, was warm and safe no longer. I believe she walks, thought Hilary, unknowingly echoing Ladislas. I believe Elizabeth walks and that she is here with us now. If I looked round would I see her, half-hidden by the shadows, watching me? She shivered again.
Reverend Mother was saying, ‘The truth about the Countess was always intended to be kept a strict secret. It was never meant that it should get out.’ A brief gesture. ‘Those who headed her trial and later sentenced her were afraid of her powerful relatives and so they tried to draw a veil of silence over the proceedings. They were reasonably successful: the records of the trial were kept at the Court of Vienna and later sent to Budapest.’ Reverend Mother tapped the vellum book with a fingernail. ‘But this tells it all.’
‘What—’
‘This is a monograph on the Countess, written by a Jesuit Father in the early years of the eighteenth century. He published his findings a few years afterwards. Because of his scholarship he had access to archives not generally available, and the legend is that he came upon the trial documents by chance.’
‘The trial?’ said Hilary. ‘Then she was brought to justice?’
‘It was a harsh justice,’ said Reverend Mother, thoughtfully. ‘Even for such a one, it was a very terrible punishment.’ She looked down at the book again. ‘This is culled from what researchers term primary sources. Contemporary accounts. Do you read Latin, Soeur?’
‘Not well, but sufficiently for a general understanding, I think,’ said Hilary.
‘I am very pleased to hear it. I am old-fashioned enough to regret the loss of Latin in the Mass,’ said Reverend Mother, severely. ‘However, it is not for us to question the Holy Father’s decision. Well, it is all in here. Elizabeth Bathory’s trial. The findings of the tribunal under Gyorgy Thurzo, who was the Grand Palatine of Hungary. Transcripts of interrogations made of the Countess’s serving women. Father Laszlo put together a remarkable document.’ Reverend Mother opened the vellum cover carefully. ‘This would be regarded as immensely valuable by a collector, but I have never felt especially privileged to have it in our library.’ A faint tremor passed over her usually calm features.
Hilary said, ‘Did it – this document – come with the house when the Order bought it?’ And thought with irritation that she sounded like an estate agent.
Reverend Mother said, ‘Yes. Father Laszlo’s Order owned this house for a time, and it was here that he worked and studied. But at the turn of the century the Jesuit Fathers wished to open a school. This was not really large enough, and there were no facilities for sports fields – important for boys, of course – and our own Order of St Luke acquired it. Along with the contents of the library.’
‘I see.’ Hilary stared at the book, torn between fascination and repulsion. Elizabeth’s trial. Elizabeth’s final punishment. Written down by those who had dealt with her. She looked back at Reverend Mother. ‘And – you will permit me to read this?’
‘If your Latin is adequate enough, it would be helpful to you. You have learned something of her life, and perhaps you should know how her evil was brought to its culmination. I read it myself when I was young and eager and when I planned to set down the record of this house’s history.’ One of the Gallic shrugs. ‘I grew out of such worldly notions, of course, and there was more than enough of God’s work for me. I forgot about it. But then, four years ago, Catherine Bathory asked to join our Order.’ She paused, and Hilary said, softly,
‘And then you remembered.’
‘Yes. I read Father Laszlo’s monograph again. Perhaps I hoped to find guidance as to whether Catherine should be accepted as a novice. You understand that I was very hesitant. Elizabeth Bathory’s descendant—’ A shrug. ‘Of course there was no guidance to be found in the manuscript, but I began to be aware of two things: one was that Catherine was genuinely devout, and the other was that she had a very deep belief that she had to make reparation for something. If both those assumptions were right, then she should certainly be welcomed into our House.’ She paused again and Hilary waited. ‘The likeliest explanation was that despite her extreme youth, Catherine herself had committed a crime.’ Reverend Mother frowned and then went on. ‘But during my talks with Catherine, I could not rid myself of the feeling that it was not her own sin, but that of her ancestress she wished to expiate.’
‘Elizabeth—’ said Hilary, half to herself.
‘Yes.’ The cool eyes met Hilary’s. ‘Elizabeth Bathory was a woman of immense fascination,’ said Reverend Mother. ‘Was she simply insane, or was there more to it? Great cruelty is as interesting in its way as great goodness.’
‘That sounds a little like Gnosticism,’ said Hilary cautiously.
‘That without evil one cannot appreciate good? I daresay Our Lord would not have dismissed the notion,’ said Reverend Mother. ‘I have never been sure how much Catherine knew about Elizabeth,’ she said. ‘And I hesitated for a very long time before permitting her to come to us. But in the end we did receive her.’
‘Because of Elizabeth?’ asked Hilary. ‘Or in spite of?’ Reverend Mother smiled. ‘I think it was more that I felt the coincidence of her wanting to enter this House had a meaning,’ she said.
‘Elizabeth returning,’ said Hilary, thoughtfully. ‘Through her descendant.’
‘Yes. I believed that Catherine was suffering because of Elizabeth’s wickedness. Whether she knew it or not. I thought of the very famous Exodus verse.’
She looked at Hilary and waited, and Hilary said, softly, ‘The iniquity of the fathers being visited upon the children.’
‘Exactly. Or,’ said Reverend Mother, a feminist before her time, ‘that of the mothers. I thought Catherine should be allowed to work out that suffering and that we could help her.’ She stood up and moved to the door. ‘And now do you realise it is six o’clock, Soeur? Time for our day to begin. Even violent death must not halt God’s work, and there is a Requiem Mass to prepare for our dear Sister Thérèse.’
As she opened the door, Hilary heard the Angelus bell, and Reverend Mother’s soft voice began the short, rather lovely prayer.
‘Angelus Domini nuntiavit Mariae . . .’
Hilary heard her own voice joining in. ‘The Angel of the Lord declared unto Mary, and she received the Holy Ghost . . .’
God’s work went on. Even in Elizabeth Bathory’s house.
Chapter Thirty-three
Armand Wagner regarded his men in the small room set aside for them by Sister Clothilde. It was a good team. Gustav, and the two young officers, Bremner and Burghen. Bremner had dived straight in, of course, and so long as he did not allow his zeal to overtake his discretion, he would be very useful. Burghen was stolid and clumsy, but he had his usefulness, and he was a good counter-balance to the mercurial Bremner.
Wagner thought for a moment, and then said, ‘This as an odd place for us to work, but we’ve had odder. We’ll ignore the scenery as much as possible and we’ll have no tasteless jokes. Burghen, are you listening to that? What’s this? The preliminary medical report, is it?’
‘It is.’ Gustav had sorted the
chief’s papers into a nice tidy pile and frowned to see him rifle through them. ‘The doctor had to go off to another call but he left you his notes. There’re a few definitive points.’
‘So there are.’ Wagner donned his spectacles.
‘It’s much as we might have expected,’ he said, looking up after a moment. ‘Deceased was female, in good health, aged approximately twenty-six – we could have guessed that. Death almost certainly due to a massive arterial haemorrhaging. We could have taken a run at that, as well. I suppose the medical boys do earn their fees somewhere, do they?’ He flipped a page. ‘The lady appears to have been virgo intacta until our man got his claws on her.’
‘Rape, sir?’
Wagner looked up. It was Bremner who had asked it, of course. But there was no prurience in the boy’s face, only a wish to understand as much as possible. And it was a fair enough question. Wagner said, ‘Rape undoubtedly. Semen in the vaginal canal. And penetration after death, so they think.’
Gustav coughed primly. ‘Semen in the mouth also,’ he said. ‘If you turn to the next page—’
‘Yes, I’ve seen it. After death again, was it? Yes, of course it would be. Nasty, unnatural beast, isn’t he?’
‘There’re no fingerprints yet, sir,’ said Gustav, because you had to concentrate on routine in these cases, and ignore the chief’s flights of fancy. ‘They’ll get a blood match from the semen, of course, and they think there might be traces of his saliva— Sorry sir, did you say something?’
‘Only that you’re giving me a picture of something not entirely human slavering over its prey. Anyone here prone to nightmares? Are you, Burghen? Then you’d be better off directing traffic.’
