by Basil Copper
Coleridge smiled.
‘I had not forgotten, sir.’
He looked round slowly, as though wishing to imprint the room on his memory.
‘I must go now. Abercrombie is waiting for me below. And you have, I believe, kindly arranged for the night-sleeper to Pest to stop for us.’
The Count nodded.
‘That is so. You must not be late. But you have plenty of time to catch the train. We will come down with you.’
The Countess was the last to leave the room. In front of the table which held the silverware and the empty tea-cups, the tall windows glowed like a stage-set. Lugos was spread out below, ghostly, mysterious, and unreal, as though it were composed of pasteboard, paint, and theatrical lighting.
On the horizon the sky was stained angrily with the fires of sunset. The dusk came on inexorably.
CHAPTER 41: RAGLAN’S DIARY
Moonlight blanched the window-frames and fell in bars of silver across the sharply angled roofs of Lugos. The Count and Countess were still at the table, this time with brandy-glasses between them. Far across the distant hillside Coleridge’s sledge, driven by the same man who had brought him there, stood out as a large black speck against the bleak landscape.
‘You promised to tell me what else was in Raglan’s diary,’ the Countess reminded him.
The Count’s tall figure remained standing at the window. Then he sat down abruptly.
‘So I did, my dear. So I did,’ he said absently.
He reached over for the bottle and poured a second offering into each of their big balloon glasses. They silently toasted each other in the moonlight spilling through the casement. The only other light in the room came from two red candles in a silver candelabrum that stood upon the table.
‘Raglan’s diary is a remarkable document,’ the Count went on eventually. ‘I shall preserve it among my archives. Either he is a madman, or my own sanity is in question.’
He smiled quietly to himself.
‘Perhaps a little of both.’
He turned to face his wife.
‘Have we had a mad werewolf under our roof? Or have we all been the victims of hallucination?’
The Countess paled slightly, plucking at the sling which held her injured arm.
‘That animal was no hallucination. Many people saw it. And it appeared and disappeared as though by magic.’
Homolky nodded grimly.
‘Just so. But a mad werewolf, bent on revenge! It passes belief.’
He pondered deeply.
‘I wonder whether Mother had recognised him?’
‘Had you not better tell me what you have learned from Raglan’s diary?’ the Countess went on. ‘The creature Sanders – or perhaps I should say that man, Parker . . .’
The Count shook his head, abruptly interrupting her.
‘Who said anything about Parker? If Raglan is not mad, then Abercrombie is the man. Or the were-creature, if you prefer.’
The Countess got up, blank amazement on her face. Her voice was agitated as she replied.
‘But the man Parker . . .’
‘Just another innocent victim, if Raglan’s diary is to be believed.’
There was a long silence between them. The Countess sat down again, breathing heavily.
‘But ought he not to be arrested?’ she said. ‘You let him leave our roof . . .’
There was a strange tenderness in the Count’s eyes as he gazed at his wife.
‘My dear girl, on what proof? That of a weird diary of a man who apparently hanged himself, and who may have even taken his own life in an insane fit?’
The Countess leaned forward.
‘You know he did not.’
There was a grim expression in the Count’s eyes.
‘Yes, we know. And with the aid of Raglan’s little black book we can piece together some of the apparently inexplicable events here.’
He tapped the small volume in front of him.
‘Raglan’s attention was first drawn to Abercrombie when he saw him drop some sort of capsule into Menlow’s wine one evening. The doctor did not know he was observed, and Raglan resolved to keep him under observation.’
‘That was why he enlisted Nadia’s help?’
The Count nodded.
‘Without drawing our daughter’s attention to any one man. Raglan felt it might be too dangerous.’
‘And not without cause.’
The Count got up and took a quick turn about the room. He came to a halt and stared at the diminishing speck of the sledge upon the horizon.
‘He pieced together a remarkable chain of events. Abercrombie was always there to guard Coleridge, was he not? He turned up time and again, ostensibly to save his life.’
‘After having first risked it?’ put in the Countess shrewdly.
‘According to Raglan,’ said the Count, ‘Abercrombie took him to the cellars to destroy him. He first had to disappear before metamorphosing himself. He did this by the effective trick of dropping through a half-rotted door leading to the oubliette.’
The Count smiled sardonically.
‘He had no doubt already inspected it. Not only that, he was in no danger. It was blocked by masonry a few feet below where Coleridge found him.’
‘Once in the dark he reappeared in his wolf-guise,’ the Countess breathed. ‘But Nadia interrupted his scheme.’
‘In the confusion he regained the oubliette,’ the Count went on. ‘Raglan thought Coleridge had wounded the wolf. He recognised the cut on Abercrombie’s forehead as a graze from Coleridge’s bullet and not an abrasion caused by his fall into the dungeon.’
‘This becomes more and more fantastic,’ said the Countess.
‘Does it not?’ her husband replied. ‘But it is the only sequence of facts that fits. Raglan went further. He says Abercrombie brought on that pack of wolves in The Place of the Skull to destroy Coleridge, the only man in the Castle, apparently, who had an inkling of the truth. The irony was that the one man who held the key was not even suspected by Abercrombie at that time.
The Countess took another sip of brandy. Some of the colour now was coming back to her cheeks.
‘Raglan’s theory was that Abercrombie fired to miss the wolves,’ said Homolky, ‘his accomplices in the matter. There were only some five or six bodies in the gorge, all shot by Coleridge, according to Raglan. Abercrombie only began to fight in earnest when Raglan and Anton’s party arrived at the gorge and when the beasts were almost upon them. Coleridge was interfering with his revenge, you see, and had first to be removed.’
‘So that we could all be destroyed,’ said the Countess with a shudder.
She drew closer to her husband as they sat staring at the blanched moonlight on the window.
‘Menlow was given a drug to weaken his resistance when the man-beast attacked him,’ the Count went on. ‘But again Coleridge interfered when Abercrombie destroyed Raglan. Abercrombie suspected Raglan had left some records about him; perhaps he knew he was on the staff of the Manchester asylum. Abercrombie needed time; it is my own theory that he administered some drug to Coleridge to incapacitate him. He then went to Raglan’s room, cut the rope suspending the body, closed the window, and removed the cut end.’
The heavy silence was broken this time by the Countess.
‘Why was George Parker in the conservatory at all at the crucial time? Another innocent man.’
‘They were all innocent men,’ said the Count heavily. ‘That was when Anton intervened. He could not let Coleridge face that danger alone. He and Rakosi followed. He was the first to search Parker’s body. He found a note in disguised handwriting arranging a rendezvous with Coleridge at the conservatory. No doubt Abercrombie had hoped to remove it himself, but the authorities were
too quick for him. He has given up now and left with his revenge unaccomplished. For the time being, at least.’
‘How can you be sure of all this?’ the Countess persisted.
Her husband shook his head, a grim smile still lurking round his lips.
‘I cannot. The whole thing is fantastic. And one wonders what has happened to the real Abercrombie.’
Now there was an alarmed note in the Countess Sylva’s voice.
‘You have not told Coleridge this? That his close friend and protector is responsible for these horrible murders. Ought we not to warn him?’
The Count shook his head again.
‘It would do no good. There is no way on earth we can prove all this. And any city police-force would laugh at such primitive superstition. For the same reason I have not told Anton of this diary. I have no doubt he has reached his own conclusions.’
The Countess looked long and deep into her husband’s eyes.
‘And you really believe all this? Wolves and werewolves? That the entire lycanthropic legend of mediaeval times has been enacted beneath this roof?’
The Count’s eyes were solemn.
‘I do believe it, Sylva. You remember that Professor Coleridge wounded the wolf in the conservatory. The wound was on the right forepaw, according to his deposition to Colonel Anton.’
He sighed heavily, turning his head to the window.
‘As I said goodbye to Abercrombie, he winced slightly when we shook hands. I noticed that he had a bandage round his right wrist, which he tried to keep concealed as much as possible.’
The Countess got to her feet, alarm on her face.
‘What are you thinking of? Word must be got to the professor. It is a long journey to Pest. Coleridge will be quite unprotected if this creature strikes again.’
She looked at the passive figure of her husband with exasperation.
‘Do you hear what I am saying? We must think of Nadia.’
The Count shook his head, laughing low in his throat.
‘Do not distress yourself, my dear. Coleridge is safe enough. I have seen to that.’
He drew the Countess to him, and the two stood staring down at the tiny dot that was now dwindling to insignificance in the vastness of that plain of ice and snow.
EPILOGUE
The breath reeked from Coleridge’s mouth like smoke as the sledge breasted the rise, the runners creaking in the icy ruts of the unmade country road. Beside him, swathed in furs, the burly figure of Abercrombie was silent. The driver was silent too, despite the beauty of the moonlight, as though the terrible happenings at Castle Homolky had laid a blight upon the entire neighbourhood for miles around.
It was the same driver who had brought Coleridge to the Castle, seemingly at some vast distance in time. Where he had been voluble and forthcoming on the outward journey, now he seemed taciturn, almost frightened. Coleridge realised he had never learned the man’s name. He must remember to ask him and give him a good tip when they arrived at the station.
He opened his heavy fur coat quickly and glanced at his silver-cased watch. They still had more than forty minutes before the night express was due and only a few more to their destination. He turned in his seat to look back. Far away, beyond the lifeless glare of the frozen river, lay the dark huddled mass of Lugos and, high above it, on its moated rock, the great decorated ice-cake that was the Castle.
There was a flare of red light coming to the right of the village, and Coleridge remembered the Gypsy Fair. He wondered whether Nadia was looking from her window, like some mediaeval princess, to catch the last glimpse of their conveyance.
Abercrombie broke the dismal silence at last.
‘All’s well, eh, Professor?’
His white teeth glittered in the black beard as he stared sympathetically at his companion.
‘But at what a cost,’ said Coleridge sombrely.
Abercrombie’s eyes dropped.
‘You silence me there, Professor. But you have your life, at least. These things are inexplicable.’
He shrugged and huddled deeper into the furs of the sledge. The two horses were working hard now as they went uphill, and there, several hundred yards ahead, were the dim lights of the station. It was a lonely place, and Abercrombie placed a big hand on Coleridge’s fleshy shoulder.
‘Civilisation, Professor! You will think this a mere dream when the lights of Pest are about you.’
Coleridge shook his head.
‘Say a nightmare, rather.’
All the episodes in which he had taken part were beginning to come back now, with the cloudy vision of an opium addict’s dream. The only sane things that emerged from the misty images that beset his brain were the calm beauty of Nadia Homolky’s face and the strong, controlled presence of her parents in the background.
He shook the mood from him with difficulty, conscious of the icy cold, like the touch of steel upon his face. He groped about his feet for his briefcase and his valise. The briefcase with its useless documents for a Congress which death had interrupted in the most violent and horrific form and which would now never be resumed. He was tempted to hurl it into a wayside snowdrift but suppressed the urge.
His companion was made of stronger stuff and would not understand. Besides, he had saved Coleridge’s life on more than one occasion and the professor had no wish to make another exhibition of himself; the giant Scot had already seen him ill and suffering from the effects of nerves. He did not want to further diminish himself in the doctor’s sight.
They drew up at the remote country station where the dim oil lamps swung in the wind, casting huge gusty shadows on the platforms. There was no sound but the creaking of the weatherbeaten signs, which made a melancholy noise on their rusted chains. As before, Coleridge could not make out the unpronounceable name.
Abercrombie had his own baggage down and was already paying the driver. Coleridge came over to shake hands and add his own tip. The driver thanked them both in his excellent English and bade them a good journey. And then he was turning the horses and in a few moments was a diminishing speck in the tumbled mass of ice and snow.
Abercrombie led the way across the planked platform. At the station-master’s office that worthy, in his best braided cap and uniform, greeted them excitedly in Hungarian before studying their tickets at great length. He then led them to a freshly dusted waiting-room, where a wood fire burned in the stove, and left them. His figure was rapidly lost to sight beneath the thick ice that rimed the windows.
Coleridge went to stand by the pane, clearing a space at a corner so that he could see the train’s arrival. They still had half an hour. Abercrombie stood quite close to him. His eyes had a yellow fire in them, almost like an animal’s. He looked reflectively at the professor’s throat.
The two men turned as the door to an inner office behind them opened. Abercrombie unobtrusively drew away. Colonel Anton’s beaming face appeared in the opening. He wore his shabby cap with the rubbed braiding, and his hooded eyes twinkled above the heavy moustache. The red tabs on his uniform overcoat made vivid bloodlike splashes beneath the overhead lamps, and the Star of Krasnia twinkled at his breast.
Behind him came the dapper figure of Captain Rakosi, in full dress uniform. Both men wore swords as well as pistols. Anton glanced from one to the other and drew himself up in a salute.
Abercrombie stared regretfully at his companion; he pulled his right sleeve even more tightly over his glove.
Colonel Anton beamed benevolently on the two men as he moved forward with the captain.
‘We have urgent business in Pest! We go together, yes?’ he said in passable English, to Coleridge’s considerable astonishment.
The thin whistle of a distant train interrupted the small tableau. Coleridge glanced up at the clock on the waiting-room wall
, surprised to find it was some twenty minutes early.
Anton slapped his pistol holster, his teeth strong and gleaming in his smile.
‘In case we meet werewolf again! Silver bullets! Effective, yes!’
He roared with laughter and led the way out to the platform where the faint lights of the train were already showing.
The blanched moonlight shone down on the wild and desolate scene as the four men stood waiting, Rakosi and Anton taking up position on either side of the professor. The station-master hovered pompously with a lantern. Abercrombie, a huge, massive figure, stood apart from the others, his shadow thrown long and heavy on the boards.
His eyes glowed with pale fire, and he held his head tilted to one side in the unearthly beauty of the moonlight.
Faintly, very faintly, so that the others were not even aware of it, his hypersensitive ears caught the howling of the wolves, his brothers, in the wind.
AFTERWORD
Keeping the Wolf at the Door
Thirty-two years ago, I had not yet met Basil Copper.
Of course, I was already well acquainted with his work: while still a schoolboy I had first encountered Basil’s byline in Herbert van Thal’s infamous Pan Book of Horror Stories and other British anthologies of the period (it remains my opinion that his tales ‘The Janissaries of Emilion’ and ‘Amber Print’ are amongst the finest short stories the horror field has to offer).
I had also read his two most recent books from the American specialist publisher Arkham House – the collection And Afterward, the Dark (1977) and the gaslight Gothic novel Necropolis (1980). (It would be some years before I tracked down a copy of his 1973 collection, From Evil’s Pillow, from that same highly collectible imprint.) Also, our mutual friend, Arkham House publisher James Turner, had sent me some of Basil’s Solar Pons books – an authorized continuation of the exploits of the Holmesian detective created by Arkham founder August Derleth.
