by Basil Copper
He had long ago come to that conclusion as a result of his own researches into the human mind through the arcane world of folklore, and it was something which continued to baffle and frustrate even the trained observer.
But he knew now, again transferring his gaze to the Count, something of at least one strand making up the secret sorrow he had sensed in the Count’s own refined and brooding features. They were still standing there when a dark-uniformed official on the colonel’s staff entered the room below and saluted the latter, who looked up from his task at the table.
The two men held a muffled conversation which the Count followed with increasing satisfaction. He nodded as the man went out the far door.
‘Preparations for the wolf-hunt are complete, Professor. Captain Rakosi and all officers and men who can be spared will beat the woods from the north, entering from the road some five or six miles distant, and drive the beasts on to our guns.’
He looked at Coleridge hesitantly.
‘I hope I can rely on you, Professor. I can promise we will shoot only those brutes which are suspect. We are looking for the big wolf which the colonel tried to shoot.’
‘You can rely on me,’ Coleridge said shortly.
The Count wore a satisfied expression.
‘Excellent. We shall go tomorrow under any conditions except those of a blizzard. But all the signs point to the fact that the snow will stop before morning.’
The two men were descending the staircase to meet Colonel Anton at the foot when the library door opened to admit the grim-faced figure of Abercrombie.
CHAPTER 23: A FACE FROM THE PAST
‘We must search the Castle from top to bottom!’
The Count’s voice was vibrating with surprise and anger. He took his glass of cognac and drained it at a gulp. Colonel Anton stood grave and silent with his back to the fire. He spoke little or no English and waited patiently until the Count should see fit to translate the gist of their remarks.
‘You astonish me with your conclusions, Doctor,’ the Count said.
‘This is an astonishing business,’ Coleridge put in. ‘You say it was definitely a wolf?’
Abercrombie nodded.
‘I am familiar with their habits,’ he said. ‘And my folklore researches in my own particular subjects, together with my medical reading on the wounds inflicted on persons killed by wolf-packs, have made me tolerably au fait with the methods employed. Menlow was killed when attacked by a wolf, there is no doubt about it.’
The Count gave a swift glance at Anton, who momentarily lifted his eyelids but otherwise gave no audible sign of life.
‘You incline to murder, then?’
Abercrombie shook his head.
‘The attack was that of a wild beast, however improbable that may seem within the walls of the Castle. You were not mistaken in what you say, Professor.’
He smiled thinly.
‘My examinations today have been nothing if not varied. I have just been called to examine Shaw, which was why I was delayed. He was in some pain, and I have given him something for it. His ankle is swollen like a balloon, but cold compresses should bring it down within the next few days. Though he must keep off his feet as much as possible.’
Coleridge seized this unexpected opportunity.
‘There was no wound?’ he said quickly, instantly regretting it.
‘Wound?’
The Count could not keep the surprise from his voice.
‘My apologies for being so imprecise,’ Coleridge told the doctor. ‘I meant an injury, of course. I heard that he had fallen on the stairs, and I feared blood vessels might have been in-volved.’
Abercrombie shook his head.
‘Nothing like that; merely bruising and swelling. I have sent him to bed so his absence from the remainder of today’s lectures need not be construed by his colleagues as anything personal.’
He was obviously relaxing with a little banter after his grim task in the cold outhouse, and Homolky went immediately to offer him more cognac while Anton moved over to make room for him in front of the fire.
‘I thought you said wolves killed in a very noisy and messy manner,’ Coleridge put in, somewhat tactlessly. He could see the nerve twitching in their host’s cheek again. Abercrombie made a little clicking noise deep in his throat, holding down the contents of his glass to the firelight.
‘As a rule, yes. But the animal may have been disturbed before it could finish. No portion of the body had been consumed.’
The awkward pause was broken by the Count, who explained in a few succinct sentences the import of their conversation to the Chief of Police. He nodded once or twice, muttering to himself under his breath. His puzzlement was evident, but he put his professional face on it and a moment or two later resumed his seat at the table and jotted down additional notes.
‘Could someone in the Castle have let the beast in?’ Coleridge asked.
‘It is possible,’ the Count said. ‘But for what purpose? You are not suggesting that Menlow was murdered by a wolf acting in collaboration with a human being?’
Abercrombie smiled grimly, warming his hands at the fire.
‘Even so,’ Coleridge persisted, ‘Menlow may have been killed for his knowledge. The results of his analysis were torn from his hand. You are not suggesting that the wolf may have eaten them?’
Homolky shook his head, his face set like marble.
‘No, I am not suggesting that, Professor. But there is something dreadful here, which seems to be quite beyond the normal range of human knowledge.’
Abercrombie looked at him sharply, his eyes gleaming above the beard. His massive presence had a calming influence on the proceedings, Coleridge thought.
‘We must not exaggerate, Count,’ he said gently. ‘Who knows what is behind this. But we have to avoid a panic, either in your household or in the village. And I am confident that we can leave everything to Colonel Anton . . .’
The Count drew himself up to his full height, his white hair in startling contrast to his face, beneath the lamps.
‘You are right, of course. You must forgive me, gentlemen. But you can imagine my feelings. A stain on my household. A guest has been killed beneath my roof.’
‘It is not your fault, sir,’ Abercrombie put in. ‘And no-one would blame you. But, as you say, an immediate search must be made.’
Coleridge felt moved to intervene.
‘Discreetly,’ he said. ‘This afternoon’s lectures must be put back until tea-time. I suggest we make a floor-by-floor search. We will go armed and in twos.’
Abercrombie nodded, his bearded face grim with determination.
‘Whom would you suggest?’
‘We four. And perhaps Captain Rakosi and one of his officers. We will keep Miss Homolky informed, of course. And we will need sketch plans of the building, a copy for each couple involved in the search.’
‘There is no difficulty in that,’ the Count put in. ‘I will make all the necessary arrangements.’
He had recovered his poise now that the moment for clear-cut action had arrived. Like Coleridge himself, he was better when some definite plan had been decided upon. He went over to Anton, and the two conferred together for several minutes. Coleridge joined his colleague in front of the fireplace.
The Count was back again.
‘I have made the necessary arrangements with Anton. And Rakosi is already here, as you know. My wife and daughter will draw the two copies of the plans you will need. We will visit the Weapons Hall on our way down. I take it you can use a revolver, Dr. Abercrombie.’
The big Scot bowed stiffly.
‘Tolerably well, Count.’
He turned to Coleridge.
‘Shall we make up one team, Professor?’
Homolky nodded approval.
‘Ground floor, cellars, and outhouses, then. Anton and I will take the upper floors. Rakosi and his colleague the middle floors. All will be made clear from the plans, and we will work out the dispositions privately before we begin.’
He paused, frowning, waiting politely while Anton closed his notebook and rose from the table. He wore a black uniform this afternoon with his epaulettes of rank, but the Star of Krasnia still glinted as a dull patch of gold on his chest. His eyes beneath the hooded lids were cold and watchful as he apprised each man in the room. It was good to have someone of his calibre at the heart of things, Coleridge felt.
Homolky was frowning as they all walked in a group toward the door.
‘You say the animal you saw had a grey patch on its back, Professor?’
Coleridge nodded.
‘I could not absolutely swear to it in a court of law, but that was my impression.’
The Count bit his lip.
‘This affair becomes more strange with every hour. The big brute which has been causing such depredations in the countryside has fur which is almost entirely black.’
‘You are sure you are not too tired?’
Abercrombie’s eyes were solicitous as the two walked along the gloomy panelled corridor, keeping abreast. Both were armed, and though Coleridge felt slightly ridiculous over their quest in this civilised and highly frequented part of Castle Homolky, it was obvious they might have to rely on the weapons if they were confronted with the prowling beast in the more remote parts of the Castle or in one of the cavernous outhouses which flanked the courtyards.
Coleridge had told the doctor he had had only four hours’ sleep the previous night, and now it was beginning to have its effect. He had been sustained by the wine and the conversation during lunch, but that euphoria was wearing off. He had decided to be open with his companion; after all, if he were less than vigilant this afternoon, their lives might depend upon his degree of alertness.
‘I shall be all right,’ he assured his colleague. ‘If I feel fatigued I will let you know.’
Abercrombie grunted, looking about him with a grim expression in the semi-twilight. There were oil lamps burning at intervals here, but there were no windows except for those at either end of the long corridor, and strange shadows were cast across the panelling.
They had already carried out most of the Count’s plan, and it seemed as though they had been walking for miles. Abercrombie paused beneath the nearest lamp and studied the inked sketch of the ground floor in Nadia Homolky’s neat ruling. Coleridge had seen her only for a moment, in the company of the others, before they had set off, and they had no time for confidences; now, her solicitous look and her whispered injunction, ‘Take care!’ were still with him, cutting through the layers of tiredness in which he was becoming enwrapped.
‘This appears to be a somewhat fatuous exercise,’ said Abercrombie.
‘Perhaps,’ said Coleridge cautiously. ‘I agree so far as the ground floor is concerned. But the cellars and outhouses are a different matter.’
Abercrombie shot him a quizzical glance.
‘True,’ he agreed. ‘But I suppose we have to do it, if only to satisfy the Count.’
‘And Colonel Anton,’ his companion reminded him. ‘He now has a murder investigation on his hands. What are your theories?’
Abercrombie looked at his companion from beneath thick, tufted eyebrows. They were at the end of the corridor now, almost opposite the great barred window. It was lighter here, and Coleridge could see that it had stopped snowing. It might clear up in time for the wolf-hunt tomorrow, after all.
The Castle was becoming a little claustrophobic; it would be good to get in the open air again. The ground floor alone must cover several acres, and he would be glad when he and the doctor had followed Colonel Anton’s injunctions. At least they would then have the satisfaction of knowing that they had carried out a thorough search.
They were doing it discreetly, at any rate; the few servants they had met did not appear to think it at all strange that they should wish to inspect the spacious stone-flagged kitchens or poke about in dark closets.
Abercrombie carried his medical bag with him. Coleridge knew that it contained a dark-lantern, at least. He wondered what other surprises the burly Scot might have there. At least they would not have to face the cellars in total darkness. Homolky had indicated on the plan where the oil lanterns were; they were fitted at intervals on the walls, and the two would light them progressively as they went along.
Truth to tell, this was one aspect of their search that Coleridge was not relishing. The Count’s grim tale of his ancestor and the sealed dungeons had made a deeper impression than the professor cared to admit. Now he studied the doctor’s face, waiting for the answer to his question, which seemed a long time in coming.
‘I?’ the big man said at last.
He frowned up at the dark sky through the window opposite.
‘I have no real theories. At least none that would make much sense or give any comfort to the Count at the moment. I had already given you my tentative opinion before I carried out the postmortem.’
Coleridge nodded, looking reflectively at his companion’s face. He saw strength and character there. But like the Count, it seemed to carry some secret sorrow. Or was he becoming altogether too fanciful in the strange mediaeval atmosphere of Castle Homolky?
‘But after the postmortem,’ Coleridge went on. ‘You must at least have modified your views since then.’
Abercrombie smiled. His face was completely transformed.
‘I see your drift, Professor. You are implying that I did not speak all my thoughts out loud when I was making sceptical remarks earlier. Presumably, in order to save the Count and his family further distress.’
Coleridge nodded.
‘That was at the back of my mind, yes,’ he said defensively. ‘But if you had further thoughts on the matter they would have to come out, would they not? I was thinking of your official report to Colonel Anton.’
Abercrombie wrenched his gaze from the bleak scene outside the window and fixed his companion with deep-set eyes.
‘Naturally,’ he said affably. ‘There are one or two points that occurred to me. But whether this is the right moment to discuss them . . .’
‘I would be glad if you would do so,’ Coleridge said.
The big man shrugged. They were quite alone in the corridor, and he produced the pistol the Count had loaned him from the pocket of his capacious tweed jacket and turned it over in his capable hands as the two men talked.
‘Despite our antiquarian interests, Professor, I do not believe in the reality of the werewolf myth. Man into beast, silver bullets, and all that sort of thing. A real wolf, yes, though that seems unlikely. Anton is committed to the theory of murder, is he not?’
‘I wish I could believe that it were something so comparatively mundane as murder,’ Coleridge said.
Abercrombie smiled again. With his reddish weathered face and thick eyebrows he rather resembled one of the more sombre oil paintings that decorated some of the interminable salons and public rooms that he and Coleridge had traversed in their fruitless search this afternoon.
Already dusk was imperceptibly descending outside, making their faces and those of the servants stand out as indeterminate and featureless blobs in the gloom of the corridors, stairways, and courtyards.
‘Whether this be natural or supernatural, there is one thing I would commend to you, Professor.’
They had quitted the corridor and, opening the large double doors in front, entered a splendid panelled room which neither man could remember having seen before. It was lit at the sides by high, slightly slanting windows that imparted something of the aspect of a cathedral, and the light spilling in from the snow on the roofs rou
nd about illuminated the magnificent hammer beams of the ceiling.
Though there was no-one there and would probably not be, perhaps for many days, there was a huge fire burning in the immense stone fireplace, which was surrounded by superb carved panelling.
Large oil paintings marched into obscurity down both walls of the room, which tapered, leading to a gallery at the far end. There were polished refectory-type tables set about down the centre on the softly glowing parquet of the floor, and on them, carelessly piled catalogues and volumes which might relate, Coleridge thought, to the Homolky family’s treasures which were scattered about the Castle in equally careless profusion.
‘This is certainly more cheerful,’ Abercrombie observed. ‘The Count’s art gallery, perhaps?’
Coleridge agreed.
‘The whole place is an art gallery or museum of one sort or another. You were just about to commend something to me.’
The two men paused in the centre of the room, conscious that their footsteps were making unpleasant echoes in the far corners of the vast chamber.
‘Motive, Professor,’ the doctor said enigmatically. ‘Whether Menlow’s death be due to natural or supernatural causes, there must be motive and purpose in it.’
Coleridge thought again of the remains of the analysis envelope clutched in Menlow’s stiffening fingers. Motive enough there, he would have thought. Abercrombie alone did not yet know of this, or he might not be so sceptical. But there was good sense in what his companion was saying, and he listened carefully.
‘Once we establish the motive and purpose,’ Abercrombie went on, ‘that may well lead us to the perpetrator of this horrible crime.’
