by Basil Copper
Shaw was holding forth again now. Today he wore a thick grey tweed suit with a matching waistcoat, and his green wool tie was knotted in tightly beneath his high celluloid collar. He had something of the look of a Spanish hidalgo with his silver hair and drooping moustache of the same colour; though tall and emaciated-looking, he was possessed of immense strength.
This had been demonstrated to Coleridge when he had been helping to rearrange the platform for the Congress meetings a day or two earlier. He too was about fifty, the professor would have said.
He caught Abercrombie’s eyes fixed upon him with a sympathetic expression. The scar on his forehead where he had gashed it falling down the oubliette now showed as a slightly less livid mark. His big, capable hands held his coffee cup steady as he stirred it, making a faint chinking noise over the murmured conversation of the girl, the Count, and Anton at the far end of the room.
Coleridge owed Abercrombie a great deal. He turned his gaze from the Scots doctor’s reddish face with its great black beard to Captain Rakosi, who was today wearing another of his seemingly inexhaustible supply of smart uniforms. He did not waste time on him, as he was far too young to be the man he was seeking. And if he had been, that disposed of Coleridge’s ideas of the English doctor.
The trouble was that none of the people in the room could be fitted easily to a faded photograph of a smiling young man dating from a period some twenty years earlier. People changed so much and it was almost impossible to relate thickened features, coarser physical characteristics, beards, and an increasing weight with slim young folk whose faces life had not yet moulded into lines of character.
He turned his gaze back to George Parker. He had very strong, almost striking features, made even more memorable by his jet-black beard. His teeth were square and sharp, his hair very thick. Coleridge had already thought that of Shaw, but his hirsute appearance seemed almost like the result of makeup. He put Parker’s age at about forty-five to fifty, which placed him squarely within the age-range that fitted his most plausible theory.
Coleridge had not dismissed the Count. He had been conveniently absent at the time; he was powerfully built and immensely strong. Of course such a supposition was mad and entirely demolished his earlier ideas, but supposing the old Countess was immensely rich and the Count somehow in financial difficulties? Such things did happen.
Coleridge brushed aside these weird suppositions out of hand; it was yet one more indication of how his entire balance had been upset since coming to Castle Homolky. As well suspect the bearded servant; the dumb majordomo; Eles, the proprietor of the inn in the village; Father Balaz; Colonel Anton; or Nadia herself!
He turned thankfully, aware that the stalwart Chief of Police had come over to him, extending his hand. He still wore the Star of Krasnia winking on the front of his uniform. Shaw was at his side too.
‘He is thanking you for all you have done here,’ Shaw said, stroking his silver-grey hidalgo’s moustache.
Coleridge took Anton’s strong hand, again feeling slight embarrassment. He was aware of Nadia Homolky’s eyes on him.
‘Please tell him I only did what anyone else would have done,’ Coleridge said.
Shaw translated, and the police chief’s eyes opened wide. He smiled, baring his strong teeth, shaking his head. The grip on Coleridge’s hand became even more fervent.
‘He will speak to you after the funeral,’ said Shaw, finishing the translation.
The gathering was breaking up. Coleridge went over to catch Abercrombie’s attention unobtrusively. He urgently needed the big man’s advice.
CHAPTER 36: MISSING
‘This is as weird a business as I have ever heard of,’ Abercrombie said.
He put down his coffee cup. The two men were almost alone now in the great conference room.
‘But you have come out of it with notable esteem, Professor. If it had not been for you, Countess Sylva would have been dead too.’
He smiled faintly, his expression plainly composed for the sole purpose of cheering Coleridge up.
‘You will be able to dine out on it for the rest of your life.’
Coleridge’s face remained bleak. The business was too tragic and serious for speaking of lightly, even though he knew the big Scot was intent only on boosting his morale. The other put a heavy hand on his shoulder with bluff concern.
‘What does this village doctor think?’
‘Dr. Istvan?’ Coleridge said. ‘He is the family doctor, I understand. He also doubles as police-surgeon, so you will have a deal to talk about when he has carried out his preliminary examinations.’
‘So long as he doesn’t think that I have spoiled his instruments the last time,’ Abercrombie said sardonically. ‘I meticulously cleaned and polished them before returning them to their cases.’
Coleridge shivered slightly. The conversation was assuming a charnel flavour that he was not anxious to sustain.
‘I have something important to ask you,’ he went on quietly.
Abercrombie spread his hands wide.
‘I am at your service, Professor, as always.’
‘I will wait until the room has cleared,’ Coleridge continued. ‘I do not wish anyone to see us.’
He held up his hand to enjoin caution as the Count’s shadow fell across them.
‘I am deeply grateful to you, Professor. I hope to make my gratitude more tangible at some future date.’
Coleridge got up.
‘It was nothing, Count.’
The other grasped his hand, looking deep into his eyes.
‘On the contrary, it was a great deal. Things are bad enough, but I could not survive without my wife. You must forgive my emotion, Professor Coleridge, and you, Doctor; but these events of the past few days have hit me hard.’
‘We are all deeply concerned,’ Coleridge rejoined quickly. ‘Please say no more.’
He stepped back and the other passed on quickly, followed by Rakosi and the girl, who had time only for a brief smile at Coleridge. The room was empty now, and the two men followed, loitering behind deliberately, until they could hear the sounds of the dumb majordomo clearing up the room behind them.
The man must have a lonely and unrewarding life, Coleridge thought; though no doubt the Count looked after him well. There were compensations living in such a great house, insulated from the troubles of the wider world. Though the evils of that world now seemed to have polluted that privacy.
‘You were saying?’ Abercrombie continued, now that there was no-one within earshot.
‘I want you to look at something,’ Coleridge went on. ‘And then give me your honest opinion.’
He shot an apologetic glance at his companion as they went down the staircase; he remembered Menlow’s trembling and frightened features, which strengthened his resolve. This was no time to weaken; the menace which overhung the vast house had to be rooted out.
‘My opinions are always honest,’ said Abercrombie affably, though his eyes expressed a cautious interest.
‘I have a theory which is so fantastic,’ Coleridge went on, ‘that no-one but you would probably believe it.’
The big doctor gave his short, harsh laugh.
‘Everything about Castle Homolky is bizarre,’ he said. ‘And certainly, nothing you could suggest would be as weird or horrible as the events you have already witnessed.’
‘That is true,’ Coleridge agreed.
They were in a busier part of the Castle now, where female servants brushed by with averted eyes, and the two men lowered their voices to an almost inaudible whisper.
Eventually, after climbing several more flights of stairs in the other wing, they had reached the entrance to the Count’s private library, which was Coleridge’s destination.
‘What do you think about Raglan’s disa
ppearance?’ Coleridge ventured.
Abercrombie shook his massive head.
‘I do not know. It is all of a part with the blackness that surrounds us.’
The two had paused on an airy landing that was surrounded on three sides by windows. The thickly whirling snow made a suitably bleak background for their conversation. The blizzard was now so concentrated that it obscured everything but the immediate architectural features of the curving walls of the Castle, some buttresses, and occasionally a glimpse of Lugos far below, seen as though by lightning, between driving curtains of white flakes.
‘You cannot really think that Raglan is responsible for these murderous attacks?’
Abercrombie stroked his heavy chin beneath the beard. Today he wore a dark suit with a blue bow-tie; his sombre garb seemed to merge into the shadowy panelling that surrounded him, so that only his face floated clear, rather like one of the mediaeval portraits of the Count’s ancestors in the heavy frames that hung in the gallery at ground-level.
‘Again, I have no real thoughts on the matter. The entire business is pure insanity when considered from a logical scientific standpoint.’
‘You are sure Raglan’s body could not have been concealed in the room when you went to ascertain my story?’
Again the emphatic shake of the head.
‘The window was firmly closed. There was no sign of a rope. And certainly no corpse tied to the leg of the bed, if that is what you mean.’
The thoughtful eyes were fixed on Coleridge’s now.
‘There was, however, a distinct chill in the air, despite the fire.’
Coleridge was quick to seize the point.
‘You see! The window had been open. The murderer may have returned to remove the body.’
Abercrombie shrugged disarmingly, as though to humour his companion.
‘You may well be right, Professor. I am not arguing with you. I am merely reporting what I myself saw and experienced. Which was very little in comparison to your story.’
That reminded Coleridge of something else.
‘You did not think I was overwrought? My collapse came shortly after.’
Abercrombie’s eyes were solicitous.
‘Not at all. Such a collapse is often the result of pent-up emotion being released. You had been under severe strain during the previous few days. The death of Menlow. Your experiences in the Castle corridor. Your rescue of me from the oubliette. And finally our horrific experiences in The Place of the Skull. Think no more of it. I pride myself on my own strength of character, but I was close to collapse after the fight in the gorge.’
He reached out a massive hand and patted Coleridge’s shoulder clumsily.
‘What was it you wished to show me?’
Coleridge recollected his mission here. He quickly led the way forward. As he had hoped, the library was empty, though a cheerful fire gleamed and there stood the chair, still in the same position, which Anton had occupied while he was making his notes at the circular table. Coleridge realised for the first time just how taciturn the Chief of Police was; he had not yet committed himself to any theory regarding the violent deaths within the Castle walls. Or outside it, come to that.
The small library was one of those rooms in the Castle devoted to the luxury of electric light, and the professor threw the two big brass switches fitted just inside the door. Yellow lamplight pricked the gloom, both from overhead chandeliers and from graceful iron wall-fittings. Coleridge ushered his companion up the staircase on to the balcony toward the Countess’s desk.
Abercrombie stood silently by his side at the balcony edge, his eyes slowly sweeping across the silver-framed photographs that decorated the walls and rested upon the upper shelf of the desk. Again Coleridge felt oppressed by the silence and the weight of centuries which seemed to hang tangibly in the air here.
‘Do you see anything familiar?’ he asked.
The big doctor with the fading scar on his forehead made a helpless gesture of his arms.
‘Should I?’
Coleridge felt momentary exasperation. He was not being exactly helpful. What should his companion make of such a large collection of faded pictures, when he himself had taken such a long time to arrive at his cloudy theory?
He started to explain, having difficulty in progressing beyond his halting introduction. Then, as he continued to expound his ideas, Abercrombie’s expression became one of concentration. He moved forward, sitting down to examine the pictures more closely. He still said nothing, and Coleridge, gaining confidence from his silence, went on at a faster rate.
Before he could finish they were interrupted by the opening of the door below. It was the Count who stood there; behind him were the reassuring figures of Colonel Anton and Captain Rakosi. The Count looked up toward the balcony curiously but was obviously too well-bred to ask what they were doing there.
‘Forgive me,’ he said quietly. ‘The colonel has left some important papers here.’
To Coleridge it sounded as though he were the host and the Count apologising for intruding on his privacy; another wave of unease came over him.
‘I beg your pardon,’ he said hastily. ‘I had taken the liberty of showing the doctor some of your rarer books.’
‘By all means,’ replied the Count courteously. ‘I have already indicated that you may use the house as your own.’
He bowed slightly, including both men in the gesture. Anton had darted forward to retrieve a heavy black leather briefcase from the foot of the table-leg. He smiled affably, and then the three men had withdrawn, the door closing softly behind them.
‘What is your point?’ Abercrombie remarked after what seemed like a long silence.
Again Coleridge plunged clumsily into his narrative, but the words flowed more easily now. Abercrombie gave a heavy sigh when he had finished. He bent forward to examine one of the photographs more closely.
Then he straightened up, making a slight clicking of the teeth. His eyes were alive and questing now, as he turned to Coleridge.
‘What do you think?’
‘There may be something in your theory, Professor.’
‘But does the photograph remind you of anyone?’
Abercrombie shrugged, his face seeming enormous in the mellow light of the electric chandelier suspended far above their heads. Behind him, through the high windows, the snow still fell, though not quite so thickly now.
‘It does, now you come to think of it.’
With a heavy finger he tapped the face of the young doctor in the photograph Coleridge had indicated.
‘Do you not think there is a marked resemblance to one of our colleagues? Making allowance for the passing of the years, of course.’
Coleridge’s eyes were fixed unwinkingly on his companion. He did not dare break the silence. A shadow seemed to pass across the floor below, and a door creaked. Abercrombie’s expression remained unchanged, and he seemed not to have noticed. He tapped the photograph lightly once more.
‘George Parker, is it not? Examine it more carefully, and you will see what I mean.’
Coleridge’s heart was suddenly thumping in his chest. He leaned forward and studied the picture until his eyes watered. He now saw what Abercrombie meant. There was a definite likeness, making allowances for age and increasing corpulence. He wondered why he had not noticed it before.
They were bent in reverent examination of the picture still when there was a furtive pressure on the floorboards below. Abercrombie looked down sharply. This time a shadow hovered before the rapidly closing door. Coleridge went down the steps quickly, trying to move as quietly as possible.
The stair outside was a big one and was built at right-angles, affording an unimpeded view. A heavy figure was on the first landing, going down fast, its progress muffled on the thick carpetin
g.
But Coleridge had a clear view in the light from the casements. The heavy beard and massive features of George Parker were unmistakable.
Coleridge stood looking down from the large circular window, the reflected light from the snow making a blanched image of his features in the glass. Beneath this superimposition was spread the distorted Castle walls going away at a mad angle and, below, the huddled mass of Lugos. The snow had briefly stopped now, and the dark procession stood out with the insignificance of a file of ants.
The height was too great and the scene too indistinct to make out enough detail, but one of the figures at the very front must have been Father Balaz, then there was a gap and a few more figures, followed by two dark oblongs in a cleared space. Coleridge guessed these would have been the coffins of the old Countess and that of his late colleague, Dr. Menlow.
He felt he should have been there, but it was not as though these were the actual funerals; the coffins would rest in the church for several days, and he would have time to pay his respects later.
The cortège moved with infinite slowness. It resembled the progress of ants even more vividly from this height; just so had Coleridge, on many occasions, seen a body of ants move heavy weights in like manner until they had achieved their objective.
He could not make out the Count, but the three figures walking a little apart behind the second coffin might have been him, Colonel Anton, and Captain Rakosi.
Perhaps the Countess Sylva was watching with her daughter from some other window, Coleridge reflected, as he felt a profound melancholy pass across him. It was not merely the atmosphere of the Castle and the dark mystery that surrounded all of them; it was as though some enormous force of evil, supernatural and infinitely cunning, had invaded his soul, and he needed all his strength of will to throw it off.
The procession had passed beyond the first courtyard now and had again penetrated within the Castle buildings. Coleridge waited to see it emerge into the main courtyard fronting the moat and so into wheeled vehicles for the journey to the village below. It would be dusk soon, and lights were already pricking the huddle of mediaeval houses. The glare in the sky beyond would be from the Gypsy Fair, while an area of mellow incandescence from the large square could only emanate from the houses round about and from the grandiose hostelry, The Golden Crown.
