The House of the Wolf

by Basil Copper

‘He is a very sensible man,’ Coleridge told her. ‘And you have had enough excitement for one weekend.’

  He glanced at his watch.

  ‘I have to attend another lecture in half an hour. We shall just have time.’

  The girl put her hand familiarly in his, just as she had at the Fair.

  ‘Father’s private library,’ she said decisively. ‘We shall be alone in there.’

  They had reached the end of the corridor, and the professor fancied he saw the shadow again, slipping away from the stairhead. As it disappeared from view he had a brief glimpse of its owner. Again the uneasiness returned, for he could have sworn it was Raglan lurking suspiciously there.

  CHAPTER 26: SELECTING A RIFLE

  ‘But what were you doing in the cellars?’

  It was Dr. Sullivan with his greying beard and crumpled suit of brown plus-fours who asked the question.

  He had delivered an excellent paper on demonology earlier in the evening, followed by Raglan with an equally well argued lecture on certain aspects of witchcraft. Despite the alarms and disruptions, the Congress was proving a surprisingly vital and worthwhile event; even if appalling things were taking place beneath its placid surface, Coleridge thought.

  It was the quiet hour before dinner now and the company were still in the library lecture-hall, sprawled out comfortably in the leather seats, waiting for their summons below. It had been impossible to keep Abercrombie’s accident secret, though no-one outside a small circle had an inkling of the true facts. This was the moment Coleridge had been dreading, and he pondered his answer carefully while drawing at his fragrant cigar, aware of the Count’s worried features in the row above him.

  All the family were there, including the old Countess, whose clear-minted, brooding face inevitably conveyed to the savant her tragic history. He avoided Nadia’s eyes, though he was conscious – perhaps too conscious – that Sylva Homolky was intensely interested in the growing relationship between him and her daughter. In fact he was anxious to talk to her; not on that subject, certainly, but on the matter that vitally concerned them all.

  He sensed that she was a decisive and complex woman, and it would be good to get her opinion on the baffling and terrible events that seemed to threaten the people of the Castle. It was obviously impossible at the moment because the Count had not told her or his mother about the true situation. Until he saw fit to do so, no-one else would dare to, not even Nadia. Certainly not Coleridge; it was not his place to break his word to his host, and he sympathised with the man’s appalling dilemma.

  Now, as he drew steadily on his cigar while pondering his answer, he raked his eyes slowly about the great conference chamber, taking in the details of each of his colleagues in turn. It was difficult to believe that any one of them could be a murderer; let alone anything so fantastic as a werewolf. Yet his training and experience as a collector of folklore and curious facts from all the wild corners of the earth had taught him to discount nothing.

  His difficulty was that he possessed so few personal details about his companions. He had looked them up in the official yearbooks, of course, but he knew none of them intimately, and one or two he had never even met before the Congress in Pest. He turned his eyes back to Sullivan. It was this man, if he remembered correctly, who had expressed ironic delight in his colleagues’ scepticism when he had first mentioned the wolf-death at breakfast.

  And it was certain that to many of the village people the werewolf was a stark reality. He had gathered that much from the Count and Rakosi. The girl, too, had spoken more than once of the strange legends peculiar to that remote corner of Hungary.

  Coleridge opened his mouth to mutter some banal excuse that was hovering at the back of his mind, but in the event he was saved by Homolky, who broke in with a disarming smile.

  ‘It is entirely my fault, gentlemen. I asked Professor Coleridge and Dr. Abercrombie to bring up some rare bottles of Tokay for our dinner this evening. And they had some archaeological interest in the ancient foundations of such a Castle as this.’

  He shrugged deprecatingly.

  ‘I should have known better, and the accident following so closely upon the tragic death of Dr. Menlow fills me with sadness.’

  Coleridge shook his head.

  ‘It was not the Count’s fault. If anyone, it is mine. I had specifically asked to see the cellars. The vast antiquity of the Castle intrigued me, and the Count’s stories of his ancestors and the dungeons below had given me the idea for a monograph . . .’

  He had said the right thing evidently, for there was an interested babble of question and counterquestion from his colleagues and the Count gave him a grateful nod from his seat in the back row, mopping his forehead with a scarlet silk handkerchief. Rakosi turned his gaze from Nadia and offered the professor an enigmatic glance.

  For the first time Coleridge realised how like Raglan he was. Both young men, given the slightly different characteristics imposed by nationality and profession, were astonishingly similar in manner and physical appearance, even down to the trim, clipped moustaches they wore.

  The only real difference, it now appeared to him, was the fact that Rakosi wore his elaborate befrogged uniform with an appropriate martial dash and Raglan had on a dark green day suit with a smartly cut waistcoat of the same material. Was it that Nadia preferred young men of this type and character or that they simply gravitated to her?

  ‘It was unfortunate,’ Raglan agreed. ‘But certainly no-one would blame you, Professor, least of all Abercrombie. The accident happened to him. And in the event you – and Miss Homolky here – certainly saved his life.’

  ‘It is indeed a memorable Congress,’ said George Parker sombrely, his deep-set eyes looking reflectively round the assembly. ‘And a sad one, of course. But poor Menlow might have collapsed delivering a paper in Pest, and Duncan Abercrombie could just as easily have fallen downstairs in his hotel.’

  ‘It is good of you all to look at it like that,’ the Count put in.

  ‘That is the only way to look at it,’ said Parker.

  With his strong face, black beard, and athletic physique he reminded Coleridge of someone, but he could not quite place the connection. It was a factor which had been hovering around the edges of his mind for some time now. He dismissed it temporarily. It would no doubt come to him in due course.

  General conversation resumed, and he had time to study his companions. Raglan and Rakosi were engaging the girl in some amusing light banter, judging by the smiles which were being exchanged. The Count was deep in talk with his mother, and although Countess Sylva occasionally threw in a sentence or two it was obvious her mind was preoccupied, and more than once Coleridge caught her eyes on him.

  Professor Shaw was sitting quite near to Coleridge; he had not known him before the Congress, and he regarded him with more than usual interest. He had the reputation of being a witty and erudite speaker, and great things were expected of him at the opening session on Monday when the Congress would resume after the wolf-hunt. That reminded Coleridge he was due to choose a rifle at the Weapons Hall after dinner.

  Following their conversation the Count had had the Hall placed under lock and key, though the professor felt that would not deter anyone of a murderous disposition. He resumed his covert examination of Shaw. Despite his thin, emaciated look, he was a distinguished figure in his well-cut pearl-grey suit, and once again Coleridge was aware of the curious effect the light had on his silver hair and drooping moustache of an iron-grey colour.

  At one moment it looked a faded brown, at another like burnished metal. It was a strange transformation, and for one absurd second Coleridge wondered whether he could be wearing some form of disguise. Certainly his even white teeth, slightly canine beneath the moustache, seemed to belong to a much younger man.

  The supposition was ridiculous, of course, but
was a measure of the effect the atmosphere of Castle Homolky was having upon Coleridge. He gave it up, dropped out of the conversation, and smoked his cigar in a blissfully neutral state while waiting for the sacred hour of dinner.

  Coleridge carried the polished leather rifle-case to his room almost reverently. The Count had chosen him a splendid weapon, and under any other circumstances he would have looked forward to firing it. Perhaps on the private range the girl had mentioned; but not at living creatures, however savage they might be. He had exchanged only a few words with her at dinner.

  The news from Abercrombie’s sickbed was good, and he had so far recovered it was almost certain he would be with the party the following morning. The Count was strongly against it but had been unable to dissuade him, though the news had lightened the atmosphere at dinner with the consequence that the meal had been relaxed and genial. Even the old Countess had sparkled, though the girl and her mother had continually eyed him throughout the meal in a way that made him feel slightly uncomfortable.

  His own gaze had ranged round the table, lingering over his colleagues of the Congress. It was unthinkable that one of them could be responsible for the death of Menlow, let alone those in the village, with or without the aid of the black arts. It was preposterous even to contemplate, and Coleridge soon abandoned such idle speculation and was glad to be taken wherever the lively conversation tended.

  And after the meal and the half-hour spent on coffee and liqueurs he had avoided both Nadia and Countess Sylva and allowed the Count to hurry him off to the Weapons Hall. They had put aside the dark questions which occupied both their minds and had stuck to the technicalities of the weapons displayed in the cases and on the walls. So far as Coleridge could make out, all of his colleagues had volunteered to take part in the wolf-hunt, though not all were expert shots.

  But the Count had made his dispositions well, and those not familiar with the niceties of the hunt would be under the strict supervision of expert marksmen from his own household or those experienced shots among the guests. Coleridge himself had expressed a preference to be paired with Abercrombie, should the big Scot not be persuaded to stay behind.

  Despite the conversation before dinner he did feel some personal responsibility for his colleague’s accident, and in the heat and excitement of the wolf-hunt he wanted to make sure the doctor would be safe and protected in his slightly weakened state. The Count had professed himself satisfied, and as the rest of the party were due to select their own weapons a short while later, Coleridge had taken the rifle and ammunition to his own room.

  He had been there only a few minutes and was examining the weapon, cradling the butt to his shoulder near the fire, when there came a faint tapping at the door. The rifle was unloaded, of course, but Coleridge first lowered it and replaced it in the case before hastening to unlock the door.

  To his surprise it was the Countess Sylva who stood there, still wearing her elegant dinner gown. She looked about the corridor quickly, as though afraid they might be discovered, and held her fingers up to enjoin caution.

  ‘I must speak to you privately, Professor Coleridge. I have vainly been seeking an opportunity all day, or I would not have disturbed you at this late hour.’

  Coleridge stood aside to let her enter.

  ‘The Castle clock has only just struck ten, Countess,’ he said in an attempt to appear light and bantering.

  It was obvious she had not taken in his words, for she looked dully at the rifle-case leaning against the side-wall and went to sit in one of the big fireside wing-chairs, nervously twisting her elegant hands. Once again Coleridge was struck by her mature beauty. At the same time he hoped the Count would not come here to seek her. It was an ambiguous situation at the best of times, and Coleridge did not want any misunderstandings, particularly where Nadia was concerned.

  He went to sit somewhat nervously in the companion chair opposite, with the small table between. It was almost a repetition of the breakfast scene with the daughter herself, and he was momentarily struck with the analogy.

  The Countess also evidently felt her guest might put some odd interpretation on her visit, for she roused herself quickly, looking about the dimly lit chamber almost fiercely. Then she turned her extraordinary cobalt eyes full on her companion.

  ‘You will think this a strange request, Professor Coleridge. But it is something I must ask you.’

  Coleridge was uneasily aware that he might be obliged to break a confidence, and he put up his hand as though to indicate what an impossibility that would be. But the Countess stopped him with a fierce gesture of her hand.

  ‘Please hear me out, Professor,’ she said deliberately.

  She was breathing heavily now, as though keeping her feelings under control with some difficulty.

  ‘There is something very peculiar going on in the Castle, Professor. I think you know what it is. Or at least a good deal about it.’

  There was a long silence between them, punctuated at intervals by the soft crackling of the wood on the fire. Coleridge felt for the Countess in her difficulties, and he had no intention of lying to her.

  ‘Had you not better ask the Count?’ he said gently.

  The tall woman straightened in the chair.

  ‘I am asking you, Professor.’

  Coleridge shook his head. Already he felt out of his depth with this imperious and passionate-natured woman.

  ‘I wish I could help you, madame. But it is surely your husband’s place . . .’

  Too late he realised the trap into which his guileless nature had led him.

  The Countess gave him a triumphant look.

  ‘Ah, then the Count does know what is involved here. I demand that you take me into your confidence, Professor Coleridge.’

  Coleridge shrugged helplessly.

  ‘I am afraid, Countess, it is something I cannot do.’

  The striking-looking woman gave him a bitter smile.

  ‘Or will not do.’

  Coleridge looked at her steadily.

  ‘You must think as you wish, madame. I would like to say, however, in my own defence, that I am doing my best to assist your husband in a very difficult and dangerous situation. He is a man for whom I have an enormous respect. I could not nor would not forfeit that respect by breaking my promises to him.’

  The Countess Sylva’s eyes flashed for a moment, and she drew herself up again. But he had evidently said the right thing. She was smiling now, and all the bitterness was gone from her expression.

  ‘You are a man I also respect, Professor. I should not have asked you to break such a confidence.’

  She bit her lip.

  ‘It is just that I have been under considerable strain these last days. I am a person who prefers action to inactivity.’

  Coleridge nodded.

  ‘I understand perfectly. I wish I could help, with all my heart. But I am sure the Count will confide in you at the earliest opportunity. It was just that he had no wish to alarm his immediate family, particularly his mother.’

  The Countess nodded, as though the matter was at an end. She got up quickly and came forward. Coleridge had risen also, and she put both her hands in his. They remained so for a few moments, looking into each other’s eyes. Then the Countess released her fingers and drew back.

  ‘I sense great danger, Professor,’ she said quietly. ‘Stay near my husband if you can. I know you are an expert shot. I am uneasy about this wolf-hunt in the morning. But he will not let me come along.’

  ‘He is very wise, madame,’ Coleridge said slowly. ‘But be reassured in your mind. The Count will be surrounded by friends. And I will do my best.’

  The Countess crossed to the door. She stood there a long moment, the firelight flickering on her handsome but saddened features.

  ‘I know you will, Professor.
’

  Then she was gone, the door closing quietly behind her. Coleridge bolted it and undressed quickly, aware of the glacial wind that was howling outside the Castle and slightly agitating the casement curtains. His mind was full of a thousand conflicting thoughts and emotions as he dropped into sleep.

  CHAPTER 27: THE PLACE OF THE SKULL

  ‘Are you sure you are all right?’ Coleridge queried anxiously.

  ‘I am fine,’ Abercrombie grunted.

  With his great flapped fur cap and his thick clothing he somewhat resembled a bear as he trudged slowly down the icy slope next to the professor. A few yards away the Count, heading a long line of black figures, prepared to start the wolf-hunt.

  It was bitterly cold, but the snow had stopped, and though it was past ten in the morning it was still almost dark, the sky pressing heavily on the bare branches of the trees, the wind whistling keenly about them.

  Their feet crunched harshly on the fresh surface of the frozen snow, and the heart pounded with the effort of moving over this difficult terrain. They stopped again as they came abreast of the Count’s party. To left and right the long line of guns stretched, supplemented by a few men Rakosi could spare. The remainder were trusted shots from among the village men.

  A larger party of people from Lugos, together with the main body of Rakosi’s troop, were somewhere beyond the wooded horizon, acting as beaters to drive the wolves on to the guns which now stretched for more than a mile across the icy undulating terrain. With Rakosi’s party was a pack of wolf-hounds, belonging to the Count, which were noted for their excellence in the savage sport. Coleridge hoped for a clean shot if he spotted the wolf with the grey back, but he had his doubts.

  Menlow’s analysis and the superhuman cunning of the beast which had twice menaced him seemed to paralyse the will, and he was convinced in his heart that there was a supernatural basis for the activities of the animal which was swiftly transforming the peaceful interior of Castle Homolky into a place of terror.