Blood Ritual

by Sarah Rayne

  ‘And your arrival saved many lives.’ He paused and then said, ‘May we know more about that?’

  Michael revolved the brandy goblet between his hands. ‘The storming of CrnPrag,’ he said, softly. ‘Do you know, it didn’t go at all as I expected.’

  ‘These things seldom do,’ murmured Wagner.

  ‘I thought we’d go rampaging in with flags flying and bugles sounding – like Henry V at Agincourt or the Battle of Britain or something,’ said Michael. ‘In fact all we did – Tobias and I – was nearly ruin Bianca’s plan.’ The ghost of a grin touched his face. ‘A remarkable lady, Bianca Bathory,’ he said, reminiscently. ‘I wish I could have seen her.’ He sipped the brandy in his glass. ‘She was still inside CrnPrag when we got there, of course and to begin with, she was all for flinging us into the cells and forgetting about us.’

  ‘But – she realised that you were on the same side?’ said Wagner.

  ‘Well, I did some pretty fast talking,’ said Michael. ‘But at last we joined forces.’ This time there was no doubt about the grin.

  ‘But,’ put in Tobias, ‘it must be explained that there was a spell of time when matters were a little – on the fence.’

  ‘In the balance?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘She knew about the plot to remove Franz-Josef, of course,’ said Michael.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, she’d been having an affair with Ladislas Bathory.’ Michael paused and Hilary glanced at Reverend Mother, who said, mildly,

  ‘Dear me. And he so much younger.’

  Michael looked amused, but he only said, ‘Ladislas and Stefan thought Bianca was on their side, but what neither of them realised – what the gerons in Csejthe didn’t realise either – was that although Bianca had taken lovers all her life, she was totally and irrevocably committed to Franz-Josef. She was absolutely loyal in a – a fundamental way that had nothing to do with sexual relationships. Sorry, Reverend Mother.’

  Reverend Mother said, ‘True loyalty is a very great prize. I should have been interested to meet her.’

  ‘I think,’ said Michael, ‘that she had been dazzled by Franz-Josef when she was very young, and—’

  He stopped, searching for words, and Hilary said softly, ‘She had stayed dazzled.’

  ‘Yes. It was rather a remarkable partnership, that one. I certainly don’t think she had taken Ladislas very seriously.’

  Hilary thought about saying that no one who was married to Franz-Josef could possibly have taken anyone else seriously, and decided against it.

  ‘She was fiercely loyal to Catherine and Pietro as well,’ said Michael. ‘She would have done anything to save them.’

  ‘She almost did save them,’ said Tobias, from his quiet corner. He looked at Hilary. ‘You saw it, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Hilary had not thought anyone else had seen. She said, ‘Franz-Josef and Bianca got Pietro out of Elizabeth’s cage. The fire hadn’t started then, but Orsolya’s people were everywhere and the whole hall was in confusion. Franz-Josef’s guards had left him to fight Orsolya and he could quite easily have escaped. But he didn’t. He stayed with Bianca and between them they got Pietro out.’ She frowned, and then said, ‘Is it at all possible that Bianca entered into the affair with Ladislas to find out about the intrigue?’ and Michael and Wagner both grinned. Tobias regarded Hilary with indulgent affection.

  ‘I wouldn’t credit her with quite that much altruism,’ said Michael. ‘But she certainly used Ladislas without him guessing it. When Tobias and I reached CrnPrag, after Ladislas left with the Tranz prisoners, Bianca was already marshalling her forces. A number of the guards were on her side. I didn’t,’ said Michael clearly directing this at Reverend Mother, ‘inquire too deeply into the lady’s methods over that, you understand.’

  ‘She would not have been without the financial means to bribe them, of course,’ said Reverend Mother urbanely, and Michael said,

  ‘No. Quite.’

  ‘Go on, if you will,’ put in Reverend Mother. ‘A little more brandy, gentlemen?’

  Michael promptly said, ‘Beware, Wagner. She’s dulling your senses so that you’ll tell us the confidential police angles.’ He waited while the glasses were re-filled, and then said, ‘There isn’t very much more to it. Bianca had arranged for a couple of large coaches to drive up to CrnPrag after Ladislas had left with the Tranz prisoners. They arrived on schedule – huge pantechnicon things weren’t they, Tobias?’

  ‘Such as used for people moving house,’ agreed Tobias. ‘Cumbersome on the mountain roads, but unremarkable. And very practical to transport a large number of people – what is it? namelessly?’

  ‘Anonymously,’ supplied Hilary.

  ‘We drove to Csejthe,’ said Michael, ‘and then Bianca led those poor witless things up the mountainside. It was an odd experience, that,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘Tobias was at my side all the way, describing everything as we went.’

  ‘It was very dark and most unpleasant,’ said Tobias, mildly.

  ‘It was as black as the depths of hell and as scary as – very scary indeed,’ said Michael. ‘When we got up there, Bianca led the way around the side—’

  ‘By-passing the portcullis?’

  ‘Yes, she seemed to know all the side ways in,’ said Michael. ‘She led everyone forward – I think we crossed an inner courtyard, and then Bianca simply stood back and let Orsolya and the rest go in. As soon as she was inside Csejthe, Orsolya’s madness boiled over. Presumably that was what Bianca was gambling on.’ He spread his hands. ‘The ambience of Csejthe itself may have worked on Orsolya,’ he said. ‘We’ll never know that part. And although I’m not shedding any tears for Ladislas Bathory and the other villains, I wish we could have saved Bianca and Franz-Josef and their children.’

  There was a pause, and then Reverend Mother said, ‘And Tranz?’ and the smile lit Michael’s face again.

  ‘Ah yes, Tranz. We found out a good deal about Tranz,’ he said. ‘Tobias and I managed to get a good look at CrnPrag – it’s all recorded – Tobias described everything and I talked into the tape. There’s a separate wing at the rear with dormitories and communal kitchens – exactly the set-up you’d find in a refugee centre. There were a dozen or so women and young girls still there. We brought them out with us.’

  Reverend Mother said, ‘They are being looked after?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Amnesty International is already working to find them temporary homes.’

  ‘Thanks to your contacts,’ murmured Tobias.

  ‘Well, I made a couple of phone calls.’ Michael sipped his brandy. ‘The prisoners were Bosnians in the main,’ he said, ‘although it’s pretty clear that over the years CrnPrag’s had all nationalities. Tranz – under Stefan Bathory, and more recently, Ladislas – was dedicated to bringing the homeless out of war areas and appearing to give them sanctuary in CrnPrag.’

  ‘On the surface, a praiseworthy organisation,’ said Reverend Mother.

  ‘Very,’ said Michael, drily. ‘I suspect that Stefan had links with the Nazis in the Forties, although I don’t know if it can ever be proved. But I think if we went back, we’d find some very extraordinary things in CrnPrag’s history.’

  ‘Shall you try?’

  ‘I shall. The ghosts of that place need to be laid,’ said Michael. ‘Heaven only knows who CrnPrag belongs to now, but it could be put to very good use.’ He made a quick gesture. ‘A genuine asylum,’ he said. ‘An orphanage. That’s why I’d like to give it some publicity.’ A sudden grin. ‘Not sensationalism, but a proper drawing of attention to it.’

  ‘Would that work?’ asked Reverend Mother, and Michael smiled.

  ‘Oh yes, it would work,’ he said. ‘They’d be fighting over who was to have it before a week had passed. All the larger charities would compete for it. They’d launch national and international campaigns for funds; people would go on marathon walks, there’d be TV and radio appeals— Teams of volunteers swarming all over it
to renovate it— I’d quite like to think that could happen,’ said Michael, thoughtfully. ‘I’d quite like to set the thing rolling.’

  Reverend Mother said, ‘Did all of the mental patients perish at Csejthe?’

  ‘We’re afraid so,’ said Wagner. ‘Bianca seems to have rounded up the whole lot of them – through Orsolya. The mental infirmary side seems to have been more or less genuine, by the way, although the conditions were barbaric.’

  Tobias said quietly, ‘It was pitiful and dreadful. As if we had stepped back a hundred – a hundred and fifty years. I thought never to see such things, and I am very glad,’ said Tobias, suddenly looking as fierce as was possible for one of his amiable countenance, ‘that we ended that evil.’

  ‘The mental infirmary was a good cover for CrnPrag’s real activities, of course,’ said Hilary, thoughtfully. ‘You expect oddities in asylums. And people give such places a wide berth.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Michael. ‘Stefan and his minions traded on that. And all the time Tranz was simply taking victims to save for the next ritual. It’s a brilliant evil mind that thought that up.’

  ‘There have been minds as brilliant and as evil in Europe more than once, Herr Devlin,’ said Armand Wagner.

  Reverend Mother said, ‘And so we have seen the ending of one of the really ancient families of Europe. And the ending of Elizabeth Bathory’s line.’

  Chapter Forty-four

  Michael felt odd and a bit disorientated to be returning to Istvan’s clinic after so much turmoil.

  The place felt exactly as it had done so on his first visit. The same sharp clean clinical scents were still strongly on the air, and he could hear, beyond the door of his room, the hospital sounds of rubber-wheeled trolleys and stainless steel instruments clattering in bowls.

  The operation had been delayed for several days while Armand Wagner’s men pursued their enquiries and made out their reports. Istvan had been entirely charming and wholly understanding when Michael had asked if this was possible.

  ‘A situation of the most unusual,’ he had said. ‘But I can rearrange my work without any difficulty, and once you are here, I shall not want police officers disquieting you.’

  Probably Istvan did not want his clinic besmirched by the heavy boots of the Viennese Police Force, which Michael found quite understandable. In fact he had been rather pleased to remain in the convent for a while longer. The scents of old timbers and drifting lavender, and the beeswax from Sister Margaret’s diligent polishing felt safe and familiar. And Hilary was there. He had not let the thought form completely. Perhaps, afterwards, he had thought. Perhaps if I had my sight. He left the convent quietly and unobtrusively on the morning scheduled for the operation, simply accepting a lift in the convent’s little car from Sister Margaret who had marketing to do that morning.

  ‘No fuss,’ he said to Hilary. ‘No huge farewells. I’ll be back by the end of the week. With or without my sight.’

  ‘Please God.’

  ‘Shall you pray for me?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Do you need to ask?’

  Istvan came in to talk to him on the night before the operation, perching on the end of the bed in a friendly, informal fashion that Michael rather liked, explaining that a full anaesthetic would be used.

  ‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ said Michael dryly.

  ‘And so you will know nothing until you wake up. Then two days – perhaps three – with dressings, and we shall know whether or not we have been successful.’

  ‘Yes. I understand.’

  ‘And you know the odds are not good,’ said Istvan, anticipating the question which Michael would not ask. ‘I shall do my very best, but it is a quite severe case of detachment, Herr Devlin.’

  ‘I was never a betting man anyway.’

  Istvan talked then about the practice of playing music in the operating theatre, which Michael found interesting. ‘It is something that is becoming more common. The patient hears only a very little of it, you comprehend, but for some it is soothing.’ Michael felt the small ruffle of deprecatory amusement. ‘Also, it is relaxing for the surgeon,’ said Istvan. ‘Although it depends on the choice of music, of course. That is for you to say.’

  Quite right too at your fees, thought Michael, but he was intrigued by the notion of selecting music to be anaesthetised to. Like choosing music to die to.

  In the sixties, at the height of the nuclear war fears, there had been a saying, half flippant, half not. When the four-minute warning goes, this is the music I shall play . . . brandy I shall drink . . . woman I shall screw. Michael thought he would not have spent the last four minutes of life in screwing (four minutes for God’s sake, what an insult), but if he could, he would have chosen to wait for the holocaust with a glass of port and brandy in a cut-glass snifter and Mozart on the stereo. In particular he would have liked to go out to the first movement of the marvellous magical Symphony No. 29 in A major. He chose it now, pleased at the small irony.

  ‘And the allegro takes seven minutes,’ he said firmly. ‘It’s followed by a slow andante movement.’

  Istvan laughed, understanding at once. ‘Herr Devlin, you will certainly not hear the second movement,’ he said. ‘And you will hear very little of the first. The pre-medication is so heavy that you will scarcely be aware of anything that happens after it.’

  ‘And on the other side of the anaesthetic?’

  ‘Return to consciousness will be very gradual, very gentle. There will be no sickness, no struggling. We make very sure of that.’

  Michael supposed this was something to be thankful for.

  He heard the music quite clearly and the rippling notes were like a cool, sweet breath on his mind as he lay on the operating table, not seeing but certainly sensing the presence of the silver and steel instruments close by.

  The anaesthetist bent over him and there was the scent of strong soap and chemicals from the scrubbing procedure and underneath it a faint whiff of good scent. Aftershave or deodorant, was it? The anaesthetist might be a woman and it might be perfume or talc. The small unimportant detail occupied his mind for a few minutes.

  There was the drift of something sweet and sharp as well. Orange juice? Istvan had told him that surgeons often drank sugared orange juice when operating, for energy and refreshment. It would be nice if he could have a sip of it to counteract the throat-dryness of the pre-med. It would be even better if they laced it with gin. How must it have been to submit to operations a hundred and fifty years ago, when the only anaesthetic you got was a hefty swig of cheap brandy? Michael was suddenly enormously grateful to the person who smelled of such nice scent or aftershave, and who would ensure that the return to the sentient world was gentle and slow, and that there would not be the indignity of waking up to find yourself being sick in a hospital basin . . .

  Mozart’s music was flooding the operating theatre, folding gently about him. Like autumn rain in a forest . . . Like the scent of woodsmoke and the mist over the Wicklow Hills . . . All the good things . . . Bronze chrysanthemums and wine with firelight reflected in it . . . Hilary . . . If this works I shall be able to see her.

  And then the unknown anaesthetist bent over him, and he was distantly aware of a brief, stinging coldness in his arm.

  Unconsciousness came down like a thick black curtain.

  Hilary had spent the hours of Michael’s operation in the convent’s little chapel, but after supper she went quietly along to the library, and reached for Turoczi’s manuscript on Elizabeth. There were no loose ends to be tied up, but Hilary wanted to look at the notes at the back in case Turoczi had listed anything relating to Csejthe, or even CrnPrag, that might be of help to Michael in tracing back the houses’ histories.

  She thought, as well, that she wanted to say goodbye: not to Elizabeth, but to Elizabeth’s descendant: Catherine, who seemed to be bound up in these pages, and who had died in Pietro’s arms in Csejthe . . . Hilary would have liked to forget that last vivid scene: the coffin toppling forwar
d, and Pietro and Catherine under it, but she did not think she ever would.

  In his scholarly way Turoczi had appended a list of various documents relating to Elizabeth’s life and her trial: not precisely a bibliography, since he had used little more than the actual archives and the Minutes of the trial, but letters sent to Gyorgy Thurzo and the King pleading for mercy for Elizabeth. It seemed that all Elizabeth’s children had petitioned for her release or, at the very least, a mitigation of her sentence.

  There were details of the disposition of the Countess’s lands and properties, which was precisely the kind of information Hilary had been looking for. She made some notes and then went along to obtain Reverend Mother’s permission to take these to Michael in the clinic.

  Being with Michael again was a benison. He was propped up in a narrow white bed in a small scrupulously clean room with a view over the car park. His eyes were heavily bandaged and he was rather pale but he was still blessedly Michael. Hilary could not stop looking at him. She wanted to reach out and touch him so much that she clenched her fists.

  ‘Feel free to take advantage of me while I’m in a weakened state, my love,’ he said. ‘What about if we lock the door and you get into bed with me? I don’t suppose I could give much of a performance in my present condition, but you never know.’

  Even with his eyes covered with dressings, even through the pain he was probably still feeling, the mocking amusement was not diminished. Hilary said, ‘When will you know if it’s been successful?’ and hoped this was not being too blunt.

  The mobile mouth widened in the familiar smile. ‘Direct as ever. Don’t ever be any different, will you?’ And then, before she could even think about an answer, ‘Another two days,’ he said, and one hand came up impatiently to brush the bandages. ‘Never mind that. Sit down and talk to me. Have you read the end of Turoczi’s manuscript? Oh, good. Tell me what was in it. Sing it to me if you like. I love the sound of your voice. Even if you were reciting the London telephone directory I’d love it.’