by Basil Copper
Coleridge went forward to take the colonel’s extended hand. He felt his fingers held in a bone-crushing grip. The big man laughed slightly at his expression, revealing strong yellow teeth. By now the Count had hurried to the colonel’s side. The officer gave Homolky a very smart salute indeed and bowed more deferentially than he had to Coleridge and Menlow.
The former guessed that their host wielded a good deal of power in the locality. The two men conversed together earnestly for a few moments while the rest of the party came up. Coleridge could understand nothing of the interchange, but it was obvious from the police officer’s gestures and the occasional glances of the two men up toward the far trees on the horizon that they were discussing the wolf.
‘The colonel believes the beast to be the one which killed the woodman yesterday,’ explained Menlow, who had been listening closely. ‘It has just badly injured an old man in the village.’
There was a cry of horror from the servants and those Hungarian-speaking people in the group, and some of the former, after asking the Count’s permission, detached themselves from the main party and started off at a clumsy run for Lugos, stumbling and sliding on the icy path in their eagerness to get there.
Coleridge was vaguely aware that the Count’s wife and daughter had joined the edge of the group. Raglan was there too, and he held the girl’s hand tightly as she stood with a white face listening to her father’s questioning of the police chief.
Menlow went on translating at Coleridge’s elbow.
‘Anton cannot understand how he missed the beast,’ he went on in a low voice. ‘He caught up with it at the edge of Lugos, just after it had attacked the old man. His rifle is very accurate. It should have despatched the wolf. But it seemed to know his aiming points and avoided his shots every time.’
Coleridge felt a strange sensation enveloping him. Despite the intense cold he had become oddly warm and had difficulty in focusing his eyes. More of his colleagues were jostling their way through the group now, their questions chopped into disparate segments by the wind. Some of them were panting heavily, and he guessed they had run a good distance from the bridge, mostly uphill all the way.
Coleridge blinked rapidly and had control of himself again. He felt the girl’s eyes on him and recalled once more her strange story of the previous night. He wondered if she were given to hysteria; that and the brooding atmosphere of certain parts of the Castle, which had been growing on him over the past hours, might have been responsible.
But on brief reflection he dismissed the possibility. She had impressed him as being very tough and cool, and from the little contact he had had with her he would not have put her down as being overfanciful. That also left out of account the scratches on the door and the parquet and the beast-hairs that reposed in Menlow’s pocket.
The Count suddenly seemed aware that Coleridge was close beside him.
‘Forgive me, Professor,’ he said curtly. ‘This is a very upsetting matter, as you can imagine.’
‘Do you wish to return to the village?’ Coleridge asked. ‘We can visit the falls some other day.’
Homolky caught the police officer’s eye and shook his head.
‘There is no point. The man is injured; the village doctor is doing the best he can for him, and the beast will be miles away by now.’
He stared grimly up toward the tree-line where the tracks of the wolf could be faintly discerned in the frozen snow.
‘There will be another time,’ he said softly. ‘We will organise a proper hunt if the animal is not shot soon.’
‘Is it the same one, then?’ Menlow ventured.
The Count shrugged.
‘Perhaps, Dr. Menlow.’
He glanced quickly at his wife and then seemed to recollect his duties as a host.
‘You have met Colonel Anton. Colonel, this is my distinguished guest, Professor Coleridge from America.’
The Chief of Police gave another of his half-bows. As he turned toward the savant and moved his arm, a brilliant golden medal irradiated light, making a splash of molten liquidity on the breast of his uniform.
He smiled thinly as Coleridge’s eyes rested on it.
‘The Star of Krasnia, Professor. For services to the Emperor,’ he said in passable English.
‘It seems as though half of Lugos speaks English and half of the visiting delegation Hungarian,’ said Coleridge mildly, his eyes held by the strange spectacle of the frozen icefall. Menlow smiled faintly.
‘Hardly, Professor,’ he admonished his companion. ‘They have excellent universities in Hungary, and English and French are favourite languages among the aristocracy and upper classes. I speak passable Hungarian, and I believe we have two others among our party. You are not usually given to exaggeration, Professor.’
Coleridge relaxed, his eyes lowered from the falls to the girl, her mother, the Count, and Colonel Anton, who stood in a tight group at the far end of the wooden bridge with Raglan like an isolated fragment some yards from them. The main party were spread out on the far slope, beyond the bridge and the pool, where there were said to be some locally celebrated caves.
‘That is true,’ he said in answer to his companion. ‘Nevertheless, it is a little disconcerting at times. One hardly dares speak one’s thoughts aloud in English.’
Menlow smiled again.
‘That depends on one’s thoughts,’ he said softly.
Coleridge decided to leave it at that. Problems appeared to be gathering on his horizon instead of dispersing as they usually did when one relaxed after a Congress. Nadia Homolky’s wild tale seemed to be bulking inordinately large in his thoughts ever since she had first told it to him in that strange galleried room back at the Castle. But wild as it sounded, there was undoubtedly a germ of truth in it.
And the terrible spectacle of the mangled corpse on the bier was ever before Coleridge’s eyes. He was the only one of the Castle party who had actually seen it. He would wager that his colleagues would not be so flippant had they been present as the funereal cavalcade approached last evening.
He realised he was anxiously awaiting Menlow’s report on the specimen in the envelope. He hoped he would take it seriously enough to carry out the microscopic examination he had promised. A few moments later, as though he had read the professor’s mind, Menlow excused himself and detached himself from the main group.
Coleridge saw his lean figure striding back up the slope that led to the village. The Count had seen him also, because he despatched one of the bearded servants. The man went after Menlow at fantastic speed and in a few moments, it seemed, caught him up on the path. The professor noticed that he carried a rifle suspended in a sling over his shoulder. The Count was coming across the bridge toward Coleridge, his face dark beneath the heavy fur hat.
‘That was a very foolish thing to do, Professor,’ he said curtly. ‘This is not your Central Park. It can be extremely dangerous here, as you may have gathered just now. I must ask you to impress upon your colleagues the foolishness of wandering off alone, especially when there are wolves about.’
Coleridge bit his lip. He had no wish to upset his host, and it was obvious that the Count was considerably annoyed. As he had every right to be under the circumstances.
‘You must forgive me, Count,’ he said quickly. ‘It is entirely my fault. I asked Menlow to carry out some tests for me.’
He looked at the host’s blank face, forcing a smile.
‘For one of my lectures,’ he explained. ‘With so many experts present it is necessary to check and countercheck one’s facts.’
He had said the right thing. The Count’s features relaxed, and the cloud lifted from his brows.
‘Ah, I see. Well, in that case, the matter is closed. But I think perhaps it would be well if I emphasised the point myself.’
He hesitated
, looking round the dazzling white landscape broken only by the darkness of the pine forests and the sky, which was becoming cloudy again as though more snow threatened.
‘But over the lunch-table would be more appropriate.’
He became brisk, straightening his tall figure.
‘I think it is time we returned to Lugos. I am inviting everyone to take wine with me at The Golden Crown before we lunch at the Castle. It is one of your New World customs, is it not.’
Coleridge smiled.
‘And a very agreeable one.’
The tall man nodded, seemingly wrapped in thought.
‘Perhaps you would be kind enough to escort my wife back to the village while I collect the rest of our guests.’
He gave Coleridge a bantering look.
‘I fancy Nadia is quite satisfied with her own escort for the moment.’
And he strode off back across the bridge, barking instructions to his servants and rounding up the party as though they were a wayward flock of sheep.
CHAPTER 12: A TOAST TO THE EMPEROR
‘I am sorry that these tragic incidents should have cast a shadow over your visit,’ the Countess Sylva said.
They were in the square in front of The Golden Crown now and had drawn some hundred yards ahead of the party, which was straggling back into the main street of Lugos behind them. The Countess’s fine teeth glinted appealingly in her smile, and she linked her arm intimately through Coleridge’s as they negotiated a jagged pile of frozen snow which blocked the pavement at this point. Again Coleridge was aware of the yielding voluptuousness of her body as she leaned heavily against him while he helped her over.
‘It cannot be helped,’ said Coleridge mechanically, hoping that the Count was not watching them.
The ladies of his family were dangerously attractive, and he would not wish his host to think for one moment that he was taking liberties. The thought was absurd, of course, but Coleridge was not familiar with the social customs of this corner of Europe. What he had seen among the peasantry on his trip so far must give a civilised man pause, and he felt again the shock he had experienced the previous night when he had glimpsed the pink stump of the dumb man’s mutilated tongue.
They were through the great heap of frozen snow and walked on slowly, waiting for the others to catch up. The Countess’s cheeks were pleasantly flushed with the exertion of the walk, and she appeared impervious to the cold, the breath ascending in smokelike clouds from her mouth to merge with Coleridge’s own in the air above them.
But nevertheless Coleridge sensed some deep-down lurking uneasiness within his companion, and it seemed that more than once on their walk she had been on the point of imparting some confidence to him, except that the trivia of everyday polite conversation had kept intruding and driving away the gathering intimacy between them.
Perhaps it was just as well, the professor reflected. Already he had a commission from the daughter; unlooked-for problems connected with the mother might be too much. And yet the sense of horror which the wolf-deaths seemed to have brought with them was gathering like a visible aura above the fairy-tale icing of the Castle on the heights, and the sombre surroundings only reinforced and emphasised the brooding thoughts that seemed about to be given verbal expression between the visitor and his hostess.
The tall woman was looking at him sideways from under long eyelashes now, ostensibly watching the approaching party over his shoulder but in reality searching his face. For what, Coleridge wondered. Signs of knowledge he perhaps did not possess? Or was there a perfectly innocuous reason for her seemingly artless questions? There was definitely something troubling her. Perhaps beyond the worries engendered by the admittedly horrible events which had affected many people in Lugos.
‘You find my daughter attractive?’ was her next question.
Coleridge nodded, turning his head briefly, his eyes seeking the commanding figure of the Count, who was heading the long stream of stragglers coming into the square. They were at the foot of the steps of The Golden Crown now, and Herr Eles was coming out of the main doors to greet his guests. Coleridge followed the Countess up toward the main façade.
‘Who would not, madame,’ he said, answering her question.
The Countess gave him a wry look over her shoulder.
‘She is a very imaginative child. I should not let her wilder flights of fancy distract you from your main purposes here.’
‘I shall not do that,’ Coleridge returned blandly.
Despite the numbness of his hands and feet from the biting cold he kept his wits about him. The Countess’s last remarks were obviously pertinent to the affair on which the daughter had asked his help. After what Nadia had said and the secrecy to which she had pledged him, it was unthinkable that she would have confided in her mother.
Nevertheless a doubt persisted in Coleridge’s mind as the two slowly picked their way up the icy steps. An inspired guess, perhaps. Or was there something darker and more pointed beneath the seemingly innocent questions with which she had gently plied him on their return from the falls?
It was obvious that both she and the Count were extremely shrewd and worldly people; their daughter took after them in those respects. And it was equally clear that the Count had observed him and Nadia in deep conversation by the Castle’s ruined wall. Another thought struck Coleridge then. Had the Count suspected the subject of their conversation?
Was it possible that he himself had heard something the previous evening; that the beast had prowled the corridor and had come to his own room door during the course of the night? It was a possibility which Coleridge could not discount. And yet if that had happened, why had the Count himself not made some investigation or, at the very least, roused the Castle?
Coleridge’s head was beginning to ache with the thoughts that were whirling around inside it, and he caught again at the thread of the Countess’s remarks. She was waiting at the entrance to The Golden Crown, the professor some half-dozen treads below. Eles, after shaking her hand and exchanging some pleasantries, stood discreetly to one side, his eyes averted from Coleridge and fixed on the main party which had arrived at the foot of the steps. He seemed oblivious to the cold.
Coleridge was glad when they were inside and in the warmth of the hotel lounge. He was drowned in a sudden buzz of conversation and, after divesting himself of his outdoor clothes, was grateful simply to move with the slow tide of humanity in the general direction of the hotel lounge.
The light from the ornate chandeliers blazed down on the dazzling white linen of the lunch-table and struck crystalline sparks from the silver cutlery and the engraved goblets set at each elaborate placing. The noise that rose from the assembled guests was deafening, and mingled with it was the pattering as the servants brushed past, fetching and removing the various courses.
It had been a memorable meal not even spoiled by discussion of the latest wolf-attack, and now that the dessert was reached Coleridge felt the rigours of the Congress and of his bleak journey to Lugos completely erased by the luxury of his surroundings.
He sat next to the Countess in a place of honour; they were in an extraordinary dining room, with richly panelled walls on which hung a few family portraits in oils and two huge fireplaces, one at each end. There was an intricately carved gallery which ran around all four sides of the room, about eighteen feet from the parquet floor, and above it the great hammer beams of the roof looked almost misty and insubstantial, as the bulbs from the electric chandeliers could not penetrate that far.
The Count presided at one end of the long table with his mother, the Countess Irina, at his right; on his left sat Colonel Anton, mellowed and beaming now in the glow of his host’s hospitality. Coleridge and Countess Sylva were halfway down the length of the table, and almost opposite was Nadia Homolky, with Menlow on one side of her and the long, ravaged mediaeval
priest’s face of Father Balaz on the other.
Coleridge was glad he had not been placed next to this austere prelate who spoke no English, but the good Father had relaxed considerably since their last meeting and he was even smiling affably in the greying stubble of his beard at something the girl had just said. On this occasion he had abandoned the black soutane and wore a dark suit with an ecclesiastical collar, the silver pectoral cross glinting in the lamplight every time he moved.
On the balcony at the far end of the room, above the second of the great fireplaces, sat a small rustic orchestra in peasant costume, presumably recruited from Lugos, whose surprisingly tuneful efforts sent vibrant, harsh, and exciting polka and czardas melodies down the room, cutting vividly through the heavy surge of conversation.
Coleridge felt inwardly amused. The whole affair reminded him of the Très Riches Heures de Duc de Berry, and he realised he was fortunate indeed to see some of this luxurious, privileged, almost feudal life before it was finally engulfed by the encroaching flood of industrialised civilisation, so-called.
His palate felt cleansed and refreshed. The courses had been excellent and most delicately cooked and marinated, and the exotic fruits they had just enjoyed were refreshing and astringent to the taste. Another product, he imagined, of the host’s hothouses. With the dessert they were drinking something special, Coleridge had gathered.
‘Aszú-Eszencia,’ Countess Sylva had announced. ‘Tokay, of course. Our finest dessert wine.’
It was indeed, and the vintage was important enough for the Count to rise from his seat and propose the health of his guests and the success of their gathering in his house. Then it was the turn of the guests to stand and drink the health of their host, his family and friends, and the people of Lugos.
Coleridge had made a simple little speech which he thought effective and appropriate to the occasion. It was well received by the Count and his family; he caught the approval in the eyes of the Countess and her daughter and felt a flush starting to his cheek.
