The House of the Wolf

by Basil Copper

  They cast a bizarre patina on the faces of Coleridge and the girl, and she gave a delighted laugh as she glanced at him sideways as they hurried on down the corridor. They were passing a section where gold-coloured glass depicted the sky, and as Coleridge caught the girl’s eye he saw for one indescribable moment all the beauty of her face transformed into bronze, as though she were herself some Arcadian nymph cast by a master sculptor.

  Coleridge was amazed at the ramifications and elaboration of the Count’s life-style. To produce the flowers he must have hothouses somewhere within the Castle, and he had probably provided the incongruous blooms he had already noted at the inn in Lugos. Incongruous, only in the sense that they were wildly unlikely not only in this savage corner of Hungary but in the existing weather conditions.

  Coleridge realised the whole atmosphere of the Castle led one into a world of fantasy; it was an ideal setting for the scholarly purposes on which they were gathered here, but he did not at all care for it as a background to the somewhat more sinister incidents which appeared to be unfolding at the moment.

  The girl again glanced at Coleridge from beneath her long-lashed eyes.

  ‘A strange place, is it not, Professor? You must suppose we are all tainted with this bizarre atmosphere.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Coleridge said in disavowal but felt constrained to add: ‘That is, I would find it a wonderful atmosphere for a family like yours. But it makes a sombre setting for such an incident as you have described.’

  The girl nodded.

  ‘Precisely,’ she said crisply.

  They were almost at their destination now, for the corridor turned at right-angles and the guest saw that they were in a cul-de-sac; the passage, which had doors leading off both sides, being lit by one large window at the end through which the harsh glare of the light off the snow struck dull reflections from the polished parquet underfoot.

  The girl paused and stood for a moment or two as though in thought.

  ‘Tell me, Professor, why was it Father, with his intense interest in folklore, did not attend your Congress in the city?’

  Coleridge glanced down toward the glare from the far window.

  ‘A fair question, Miss Homolky. The Congress was reserved for professional scholars, historians, and folklorists only. Your father is a gifted amateur, and I mean that in no pejorative sense.’

  The girl made a little shrugging motion of her shoulders.

  ‘So you arranged your own Congress here in which Father could take part and hear the distinguished professionals pontificate on their own pet fields.’

  Coleridge smiled faintly.

  ‘Something of that sort,’ he admitted. ‘It might be expressed in that manner, though whether my colleagues would find your description pleasing is another matter.’

  The girl put her head on one side and looked at him with such a grave expression that it seemed for one moment as though she were a person of advanced years. Coleridge had seen such a look many times on the faces of elderly scholars who were scandalised by or opposed to his views, and it inwardly amused him, though nothing of this showed on his face.

  The girl had moved on now, and she threw open an elaborately carved door to the left. It was obviously her bedroom, as Coleridge could see a large bed with a pink counterpane beyond and a glass case in which were beautifully carved dolls dressed in colourful folk costumes. But he had little time for them; he had bent to his knees, his professional instincts reasserting themselves, and was minutely examining the bottom panel of the half-open door.

  The detail was readily visible by the light spilling in from the windows of the bedroom, and he gave a low exhalation of breath which the girl immediately seized on.

  ‘You have found something?’

  ‘Look at this.’

  Coleridge moved over, and the girl knelt at his side; again he was uneasily aware of the faint, elusive perfume she used, and he drew back slightly, disturbed by her closeness. Miss Homolky was oblivious of this, being completely absorbed by the panelling in front of them. Her hair hung down in a cloud of gold about her face, and she moved closer to take in the deep scratches indicated by the professor’s pointing finger.

  ‘Were these here before?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I thought not.’

  Coleridge could not keep a slight trembling resonance from his speech. He had produced a small pair of metal tweezers from somewhere, and he delicately picked out a large splinter of wood from the detailed carving, leaving a clearly incised groove. There was something adhering to the splinter; the girl made it out to be wool or fur and perhaps a fragment of skin.

  ‘What is that?’

  Her own voice was somewhat unsteady to her ears.

  ‘We shall know a little better when I have analysed it,’ said Coleridge crisply.

  He got up and carefully dusted the knees of his trousers.

  ‘In the meantime, not a word about this to anyone.’

  He had already moved back along the corridor and was examining the parquet with the eye of a trained observer, according it the same minute scrutiny he had already given the door. A moment later the girl, who had quickly joined him, noticed the mark which had drawn his own attention. It was another clearly incised groove in the smooth waxen surface of one of the blocks; a cut that could have been made by a sharp metal tool or perhaps by the claw of a large animal.

  Nadia Homolky gave an audible shudder, her eyes very bright as she stared at Coleridge.

  ‘Well, Professor?’

  The pair were still in a crouching posture when the lean form of Dr. Raglan came noiselessly round the angle in the corridor and discovered them motionless on all fours.

  CHAPTER 9: THE BREAK IN THE WALL

  Coleridge ignored the injured expression in the other’s eyes. He got up carefully, still holding the tweezers, and put the fragment of wood and fur into a small brown paper envelope he took from an inner pocket.

  He sealed the envelope and wrote something on it with a silver pen, aware all the time of the looks the two young people were exchanging. If the situation amused him, he was too skilled a diplomatist to let anything of this show on his face.

  ‘I think I may have some news for you a little later,’ he told the girl tactfully, giving his colleague a friendly glance.

  The latter cleared his throat, a baffled look in his eyes as he stared first at Coleridge and then at the young woman. The former thought it might be a good time to take his leave, but Nadia Homolky had not yet finished.

  She ignored Raglan and fell into step with the professor as he started back down the corridor.

  Coleridge half-turned. Raglan had taken a step after them as though he meant to follow but was halted in his tracks by the peremptory, almost savage, gesture the girl made with her right hand, which she kept behind her back. Coleridge was left with the image of Raglan’s face, half-angry, half-baffled. He felt uneasy; he did not wish to get between this charming but apparently fiery-tempered girl and a young colleague who was obviously interested in her.

  ‘I did ask you a question, Professor,’ the girl said to him gently.

  The brown eyes, so clear and candid, had an appealing expression in them now. The professor, who could be inflexible when the occasion warranted, knew when to bend with the wind.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he said by way of being placatory. ‘My mind was much occupied with what you have just shown me.’

  ‘Then you do think an animal was outside my room,’ the girl persisted.

  ‘I did not say so,’ said Coleridge cautiously.

  He went on, forestalling any interruption.

  ‘It is possible. But we are far from knowing it was a wolf.’

  ‘When will you know?’ the girl
asked.

  Coleridge admired her tenacity while at the same time deploring the way in which she was continually pressing him for an answer.

  ‘In a little while, perhaps,’ he said. ‘When I have had this material analysed. One of my colleagues is an expert in these matters. If he has his microscope with him . . .’

  ‘Oh, there is no problem about that,’ Nadia Homolky broke in. ‘Father has a well-equipped laboratory at the top of the Castle. You will find everything you need there.’

  Coleridge was about to smile at the girl’s earnestness, but another look at her face convinced him of her deadly seriousness. He put his hand on her arm in a consolatory gesture.

  ‘Do not distress yourself further, Miss Homolky. I know how gravely you regard this matter.’

  They were back at the stairhead now, and they paused again. Coleridge fixed his gaze absently on the glaring, glassy eyes of a wild boar’s head which hung on the panelling of the staircase. The Castle, he now understood, was full of such barbaric mementoes of the chase.

  He heard, too, the faint footfalls on the parquet along the angle of the corridor. Raglan had followed them, then. He realised the doctor would have to, of course, because the corridor was a cul-de-sac. Nevertheless, the young man’s proximity gave him an uneasy feeling; he felt there might be a scene between him and the girl, and he had no wish to be party to it. He took his hand off her arm. He was relieved, therefore, when she led the way down the staircase at a fast pace.

  ‘Natural or unnatural,’ he added, ‘we ought to examine the place in the Castle walls where the beast could have gained ingress.’

  ‘I am just going to show you,’ she said over her shoulder.

  ‘I shall need my boots if we are going outside,’ Coleridge rejoined with his native practicality.

  The girl laughed musically.

  ‘Nonsense!’ she said. ‘We can see well enough from the inner courtyard. And there is plenty of thick clothing in the entrance hall, which Father keeps there for the use of guests.’

  Coleridge shrugged. He was content to leave things to this rather extraordinary girl who, although obviously well educated and gently brought up, had a swift decisiveness about her that cut through the veneer of conventionalised ideas.

  They passed down the staircase to the great black-and-white tiled hall the visitor recognised from the previous night. The majordomo appeared from one of the side-doors as though he had been summoned by some inaudible bell.

  The guest realised then that the girl had, in fact, pressed a button set beneath an enormous oil painting at the bottom of the stairs. She spoke to the majordomo in her own language, and the grey-haired military-looking man immediately withdrew.

  ‘Perhaps you would like some coffee before we go out,’ the girl said. ‘I understand that is your custom in your own country.’

  The humour was back in her eyes now, but Coleridge ignored it. He was completely absorbed in the problems which were currently presenting themselves to his mind.

  ‘When we return,’ he said. ‘Then I really must rejoin my colleagues. I believe your father has some sort of itinerary planned for us today. Everyone will wonder where we are.’

  Nadia Homolky raised her elegant eyebrows, the humour still in her expression.

  ‘I think not, Professor,’ she said softly.

  Coleridge raised his glance to the gloom at the stairhead. He could now see the vaguely questioning form of Raglan hovering there. He felt uneasy and was glad when the unhurried footsteps of the majordomo were again heard on the parquet.

  He shrugged on the heavy fur coat the man presented, followed by the enormous flapped cap, and accompanied the girl across to the main entrance of the Castle.

  Their breath came reeking from their mouths as they crossed the courtyard, their feet gritting on the frozen granules of snow in the interstices of the cobbles. The going was tricky indeed, and more than once Coleridge felt his footing slip from beneath him, saving himself by clutching his golden-haired companion’s arm.

  On each occasion she smiled at him mischievously before the savant realised that her heavy boots were evidently fitted with special cleats, because they made a sharp grating noise from time to time.

  He wished he had worn boots also, but it was too late now. They were off the courtyard and under an arched colonnade which followed the ancient walls round. It was warmer and dry in here, and Coleridge stamped his feet, getting rid of crusted fragments of snow. The girl kept hold of his arm as though she were either concerned with his balance or anxious about something.

  Coleridge came to the latter conclusion after glancing at her because she stared from side to side as they went on down the gloomy cloisterlike arcade. There was no-one about, and it was almost as dark as night beneath the shelter of the wall. They walked on for a few moments in silence before the girl stopped before a massive iron-bound door set into the heavy masonry.

  It was unlocked and opened easily to her touch. There was a glare of snow after the darkness of the inner court, and Coleridge blinked, closing his eyes against the suddenness of the light. As they stepped forward into the crispness of the humped and frozen whiteness, he realised they had left the main Castle buildings behind. This was some sort of outer courtyard whose walls were in a sorry state of repair, which he had already glimpsed from his bedroom window.

  Looking back, the professor could see that the bulk of Castle Homolky and the entrance area which faced the moat and the road was behind them and to their right. The vast demesne also continued to their left until it was masked by a curtain wall which ran out to join the sprawling curve of a ruined battlement which lay in front of them.

  Beyond it, Coleridge could see sloping ground which debouched from the far edge of Lugos. There was a frozen stream which lay in a fold of ground and, beyond, the sinister stillness of dark pine forest, looking like a crayon sketch by some mediaeval artist. The smoke from a few chimneys hung in the sky like the vague scribblings on a child’s slate.

  There was a confusion of footprints in the trampled snow leading to and from the jagged gap in the tumbled walls. They were much closer now, and Coleridge bent to examine the muddled impression of many feet. He turned to the girl, who was watching him with grave anxiety.

  ‘A great many people pass in and out this way.’

  Nadia Homolky nodded.

  ‘The Castle staff mostly. They come and go to collect wood and on various errands. It saves them a long journey round by the Castle entrance and the main road. Father frowns on the practice, but there is great practicality in it for the people concerned, so he does not insist.’

  Coleridge stroked his chin with a hand which was rapidly becoming numb. He thrust it deep in the capacious pocket of the fur coat he had borrowed.

  ‘Your wolf could have come this way. And if that side-door had been unlocked. . .’

  The girl said nothing, but her downward-cast eyes showed her companion brief glimpses of her disbelief. He did not labour the point. It would be best to find out more before coming to any definite conclusions. He walked over to where the great jumbled blocks of masonry lay about the breach in the wall.

  ‘How long ago was this done?’

  The girl shrugged.

  ‘Centuries, perhaps. In some ancient siege, I believe. Father has the details if you are interested.’

  The visitor noted that there was a well-defined pathway between the blocks which led to a sort of plateau, probably of heaped earth, where it would be easy to get through. From the other side of the wall another readily apparent path led down to the meadows beyond.

  Even with the thick coating of snow Coleridge could make out the heavy indentation where thousands of feet must have trod over the years. And there were deep ruts made by carts passing and repassing, probably with firewood and the implements of forestry. He was sil
ent for a few moments, the weight of centuries suddenly pressing on his mind, mingled with a sense of the impermanence of human beings and their transient affairs.

  Then his practical side reasserted itself. He bent down toward the heaped ice and snow, trying to make sense of the blurred impressions produced by many passing feet. He soon saw that there was something apart from footprints and the ruts of a wheeled cart: a series of slotlike indentations in the frozen upper crust of the muddied snow made by some large animal. He followed them back, lips pursed grimly. The traces died out on a large sheet of ice. They went in the general direction of the door in the wall leading to the pillared arcade.

  The girl had seen the tracks too, and she came to join him, her breasts rising and falling beneath her thick fur coat with the quick breathing engendered by her emotion.

  ‘An animal, Professor,’ she said ironically.

  ‘A large dog, perhaps,’ Coleridge answered. ‘From your father’s household.’

  The girl shook her head, strands of golden hair escaped from her fur hat falling across her eyes.

  ‘I think not, Professor,’ she said slowly. ‘I know a wolf-track well enough when I see one.’

  Before he could answer, Coleridge became aware that someone was watching them.

  CHAPTER 10: FROZEN FALLS

  The count came out from behind the buttress which had concealed his approach. He looked searchingly at his daughter and her companion, but his voice was bland and unconcerned.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Nadia. And you, Professor. We had wondered at your absence. I saw you from the window and took the liberty of coming to fetch you.’

  ‘I am sorry, Father,’ the girl said quickly, shooting Coleridge a warning glance. ‘I was showing the professor some of the more interesting parts of the Castle.’