The Quest

by Christopher Nicole

  “That is so. But finding them is a difficult matter.”

  “If you will co-operate with me, I may be able to hand you some of them on a plate.”

  Bobich looked interested.

  “They have my daughter, and have now reached a place where I cannot go,” Berkeley said. “Now, if I take possession of Irene’s younger sister, it seems to me that we may well be able to do a trade.”

  “You mean to . . .”

  “Abduct the young woman, yes.”

  Bobich scratched his head.

  “Purely as a quid pro quo,” Berkeley said. “The girl will not be harmed. I shall simply snatch her, and then tell Irene to come and fetch her, bringing my Anna in exchange.”

  “And you would like me to play a part in this?” Bobich was more doubtful yet.

  “I would like you to play no part in this, although I would, before tonight, appreciate a town plan with the Karlovy house clearly marked, and also the latest information on Irene Karlovy’s whereabouts,” Berkeley said. “I understand that if the kidnapping is reported, you will have to react like a policeman. But keep the reactions down, and do not pick up our trail or follow our movements.”

  “They will say I am incompetent,” Bobich grumbled.

  “Only for a short while. I expect Irene to react very quickly. And when she comes to meet me, I would expect her to be supported, by members of the IMRO. You will have the glory of rescuing the Karlovy girl, and of arresting these people.”

  “And you?”

  “I shall take my daughter and quietly slip across the frontier.”

  Some more scratching. Then Bobich said, “Try not to kill anybody. At least, before I do.”

  “Do you trust him?” Lockwood asked Berkeley later. “Seems to me we’re putting all our eggs into his single basket.”

  “It’s a risk,” Berkeley agreed. “But I think we can trust him. I have friends in high places, especially in the army, and he knows this. Quite apart from Savos. Besides, he has nothing to gain by arresting us, which can only end in a deportation, and everything to gain by co-operating, and maybe coming out a hero.”

  “Um,” Lockwood commented. “What do we do first?”

  “Hire the horses, and reconnoitre.”

  Next day they rode up to the village. The castle had been built several centuries before, when this part of the world had been in constant dispute between the Serbs and the Turks. It was an abandoned ruin, now, and had been for some time, mainly because of that reputation of being haunted. Berkeley had read of the legend, and had visited it, out of curiosity, back in 1911 when he had trained up here with his regiment of cavalry. There was no moat, but instead a stone causeway that surrounded the walls and led up to the main gate. This had long collapsed, and they walked their horses – the other two were stabled in Nish – into the centre courtyard, now overgrown with bushes and even a couple of trees.

  The well was in the centre. “Check that out,” Berkeley said, and dismounted to look into the various rooms that opened off the yard. These were devoid of furniture, and had been used for a variety of purposes over the centuries, from the quartering of itinerant bodies of troops to flocks of sheep and goats. He wondered if any of them had seen the ghost.

  “There’s water in there,” Lockwood said. “Whether or not it’s drinkable I wouldn’t like to say. There’s no bucket or rope.”

  “Those are things we must bring with us when we return,” Berkeley said. “And blankets.”

  “Not to mention food,” Lockwood said.

  “Absolutely.”

  Lockwood looked around the chamber in which they were standing. “Not too salubrious.”

  “Let’s try the tower.”

  There had once been four towers, but only one remained intact. They climbed the spiral stone staircase, keeping against the inner wall because of the sheer drop of the centre well, and reached the first apartment. Here too there was nothing but some rubbish, but at least there had never been any animals up here, and the air filtering through the unglazed windows was clean, if cold.

  “Blankets, definitely,” Berkeley said, and went up to the next floor. Now there was only the roof above them. He climbed on to this and looked out through the crenellations. The village was about five miles away, a cluster of houses round the church. They had deliberately avoided this on their way here. Further off were only the mountains and the track – it could hardly be called a road – they had followed.

  “Properly supplied, and with enough men and ammunition, we could hold this place against any force not equipped with artillery,” Lockwood remarked.

  “That was the idea when it was built,” Berkeley agreed. “But then the Turks got hold of artillery. Still, I don’t imagine IMRO has any, at least readily available.”

  “Who actually was this ghost?” Lockwood asked.

  “Is, according to the locals. He was the last Serbian commander of the fortress before it was taken by the Turks. They castrated him and then hung him upside down from an upstairs window, to bleed to death.”

  Lockwood looked at the window, and gulped.

  “No one knows for sure which tower it was,” Berkeley reassured him. “If it’s this one, we’ll soon find out: he’s supposed to scream at night, asking for his balls back and begging for his life.”

  “You’d think, if it was one of the other towers, when they fell down, or were knocked down, he’d have gone with them.”

  “Ghosts have this habit of hanging about,” Berkeley said. “Let’s go.”

  They were back in Nish by nightfall, having encountered no one near the castle save for one small boy, who stared at them before running off as fast as he could.

  “Because he thinks we’re the ghost,” Lockwood suggested.

  There was a packet waiting for them at the hotel. They opened it in their room. Bobich had been as good as his word, and there was a plan of the city, with the Karlovy house marked with a cross. As far as I have been able to ascertain, the police chief had written, Irene Karlovy is not at this time in Nish, but I believe she is expected shortly. At present in the house there are the brother, Istvan, the sister, Helen, one maid servant, and an elderly uncle, who is their guardian.

  So there had been an uncle after all, Berkeley thought.

  After dinner they went for a walk; the Karlovy house was not far from the hotel. It was a cold, crisp evening, with a hint of snow in the air. The sort of weather Berkeley remembered well from the years he had lived here.

  “Not too good,” Lockwood said.

  He was referring to the house, which was in the centre of a terrace of two-storied, moderately prosperous looking buildings, each with its attic dormer windows, and its hanging basket of flowers by the front doors. Each also had a small front garden with a paved path. Berkeley did not suppose there would be any problem getting in; getting out and away without a fuss might not be so easy.

  They walked round the block, and faced more houses; clearly the back gardens, if there were back gardens, adjoined each other; certainly there was no way out in that direction.

  “What do you reckon?” Lockwood asked.

  “Tonight.”

  “Eh?”

  “Makes sense, old son. We will have the advantage of total surprise, because no one in there knows who we are or what we are about. That will no longer obtain once Irene gets home, or when word gets about that I am in town. And there really isn’t much more we can do in the way of reconnoitering.” He took out his watch. “Nine’clock. Some of those little stores will still be open. Let’s go.”

  They hurried, made as many purchases as they could in the short time at their disposal, but were able to secure a bucket and rope. Then they went to the livery stable. This was shut, but they banged on the door of the groom’s house until, grumbling, he opened up.

  “You are leaving Nish in the middle of the night?” he enquired.

  “We have received an urgent summons to be elsewhere,” Berkeley told him. “Now, get yourself dressed. I
wish you to come with us.”

  “Come with you? Where?”

  “Not far. It is just to hold the horses while my friend and I conduct some business before leaving.”

  “In the middle of the night?”

  Berkeley took a sovereign from his pocket. “Do you know what this is?”

  The groom peered at it. “Is it gold?”

  “It is. It is an English gold sovereign. I will give you this to come with us. And I will give you two more when we return to you for the horses.”

  The groom licked his lips. But the temptation was too much for him; three English gold sovereigns represented several weeks’ wages.

  He dressed and bade a somewhat acerbic goodnight to his wife, who didn’t like the idea of his going out at all, then they walked the horses, loaded with the bag of food and various other essential items, to a small park a block away from the Karlovy house.

  “We should be back in half an hour,” Berkeley told him. “But you will wait for an hour. If you wish to get your money.”

  “I will be here,” the groom promised.

  Berkeley and Lockwood walked round the corner. It was now nearly midnight, and the town was quiet. Most of the houses in the terrace were in darkness, but there was actually a light on in the hall of the Karlovy house. Berkeley could only hope Irene had not yet returned, or if she had, that she was alone; he needed to talk with her, but a shoot-out at this juncture, before he had possession of her sister, could ruin his plans.

  They opened the gate, soundlessly, went up the short path to the door, checked their weapons, and knocked. And again. Then they heard movement inside the door, a shuffling of feet, and the sound of the bolt being drawn. The door swung in, and the maidservant found herself looking down the barrel of Berkeley’s pistol.

  “Make a sound and I will blow your head off,” he told her.

  She gaped at him while beginning to tremble violently; for a moment he thought she might be going to have a heart attack. He held her arm and pushed her into the hall, Lockwood coming in behind him and closing the door.

  “Just behave and you will not be harmed,” Berkeley said, checking his surroundings. It was a very commonplace hallway, with a staircase mounting against the right hand wall, a closed door to either side, and presumably the usual offices behind the stairs. “What is in there?” He pointed at the door on the left.

  The maid gulped and swallowed. “The drawing room.”

  “Is anyone in there?”

  “No, sir. I was just closing everything for the night.”

  Berkeley nodded and opened the door. A single candle burned in the comfortably furnished room. The drapes were drawn over the windows, their cords hanging loose.

  “How many bedrooms?” he asked.

  “There are four, sir.”

  “One for you, one for the uncle, and one for each of the children?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then where does Miss Irene sleep when she is home?”

  “With Miss Helen, sir.”

  “And which room is that?”

  “The second on the right, sir. The back bedroom.”

  “Thank you very much. Now, I am going to have to tie you up,” he said.

  The woman began trembling again.

  Lockwood took the cords from the windows, made her sit in a chair, and took off her stockings, to her obvious embarrassment. Then he tied her hands and feet and used the stockings to gag her. He acted with his usual experienced certainty, and the woman was trussed and helpless within a matter of moments.

  Berkeley picked up the candle and opened the door; they went into the hall, then up the stairs, moving quickly but quietly. On the first floor there was a corridor, off which opened the four doors as promised. Berkeley pointed, and Lockwood nodded.

  They moved along the corridor, and checked as a floorboard creaked. But there was no sound from behind any of the doors.

  They reached the last door, and Berkeley handed the candle to Lockwood. Then he tried the handle, very carefully. It turned, and the door opened inwards. He inhaled a pleasant scent, while Lockwood held the candle above his head.

  The girl in the bed moved, restlessly, but did not awake. She was indeed a prettier version of Irene. He moved to the bed, sat beside her, and closed his hand on her throat. She gave a startled jerk. But Berkeley was lying half across her, and she could only kick with her feet, while uttering a high-pitched “Mmmm,” from the back of her throat. Lockwood came into the room, closing the door. He placed the candle on the chest of drawers, then also sat on the bed to hold her legs beneath the blanket.

  “Listen to me,” Berkeley said. “We are not going to hurt you, unless you make us. Lie still.”

  Slowly she subsided, staring at them with enormous eyes.

  “Now, I am going to let go of your throat,” Berkeley said. “But if you scream, I will kill you, and everyone else in the house. Do you understand me?”

  She made a little movement of her head.

  Berkeley released her throat, and she gasped for breath.

  “Now,” Berkeley said again, “we are going to tie you up and gag you. Please do not try to resist us.”

  He remained sitting by her shoulder while Lockwood removed the cords from the drapes, and hunted through the drawers to find stockings. When he was ready, he came back to the bed. Berkeley nodded, and Lockwood pulled down the blanket. To Berkeley’s relief she was wearing a night-gown, although the thin cotton provided very little protection.

  Lockwood bound her ankles together, then rolled her over to bring her wrists behind her back and secure them also. When he rolled her on to her back again, she licked her lips. “Do you mean to kill me?” she asked.

  “Not unless we have to,” Berkeley assured her.

  What he was doing would be quite unacceptable in any polite society, but this was not a polite society, as he had been forced to accept often enough in the past. And although this girl was probably innocent, thanks to her sister his own daughter would undoubtedly have been treated far worse.

  “Who’ll carry her?” Lockwood asked, when he had gagged her.

  “You can have the honour. But first, collect up some clothes for her to wear; she can’t spend the next few days in a night-gown.”

  Lockwood nodded, and again hunted through the bureau, finding a skirt and blouse, a pair of drawers, a pair of boots, and a thick shawl. These he bundled together and handed them to Berkeley. Berkeley now took over the candle, and led the way, carrying the clothes. He did not draw his pistol, but it was in his belt, ready to hand. But the corridor remained empty and silent. They tiptoed along the corridor, the girl draped over Lockwood’s shoulder, and down the stairs. But as they reached the foot of the stairs, there came a knock on the front door.

  “Shit!” Lockwood commented, and drew his own pistol.

  Berkeley shook his head, and gestured him against the wall. Then he doused the candle, placed it on a small table just within the door, and drew the bolt.

  “The train was late,” Irene Karlovy said, stepping inside, “and it is bitterly cold out there. But . . .” She peered at Berkeley. “My God!” She unclipped her carryall, but Berkeley beat her to it.

  “Make a sound and you’re dead,” he told her, presenting his pistol to her throat.

  “You,” she said, and then made out Lockwood . . . and her sister. “What have you done to her.”

  “We need her,” Berkeley said.

  “You bastard. You . . .”

  “Easy,” Berkeley recommended. “I might take offence. Actually, I’m glad you turned up. It saves me having to contact you.”

  “You . . .”

  “Listen,” he suggested. “You don’t have too much time. I am going to take your sister with me, to some place where she will be as comfortable as possible, and as safe as possible. I will keep her there until you return my daughter. Then you will get your sister back, and we will both be happy. Do you understand me?”

  She glared at him, panting. �
��It will take time.”

  “That’s all right, I’m a patient man, or I would be strangling you right now. But not too much time. I will give you a week. At the end of that week, I will wring your sister’s pretty little neck.”

  “Then your Anna will also die.”

  “You win some, you lose some.”

  He was relying on his reputation for ruthlessness, which this girl certainly recognised.

  She licked her lips. “Where will you be?”

  “All in good time. Either Mr Lockwood or I will come into Nish in two days’ time, and will visit you here. By then the ball will be rolling, or it had better be. Now please understand that we are both old soldiers who have always worked to a strict timetable. Should either of us be apprehended by your people, and therefore not return by a certain time, then again your sister’s neck will be wrung. Please remember this.”

  “I will remember it. Well . . . two days.”

  “There’s a certain formality to be done first,” Berkeley said. “I’m sure you remember.” He gestured at the drawing room door. “In there. You’ll have company.”

  The groom was waiting patiently with the horse. Berkeley paid him, and they rode into the night. The fourth horse was spare, as Berkeley now carried Helen Karlovy in front of him on the saddle. It wasn’t very comfortable, he knew, but then nothing was going to be very comfortable for her, for the foreseeable future.

  “That’s what comes from having a thug for a sister,” he told her.

  At least once they were away from the city he could take the gag from her mouth. They also stopped long enough for Lockwood to untie her, which enabled her to ride astride, her night-gown pulled up to her thighs, still sitting in front of Berkeley.

  “Not too far,” he promised her.

  But by the time they reached the castle she was frozen and exhausted, and collapsed on her hands and knees.

  “This place is haunted,” she protested.

  “We’re friends with the ghost.”

  “You . . . my sister has many powerful friends. They will come after you.”

  “That’s the idea,” he agreed. “Up there.”

  She gazed at the tower. “You are going to murder me.”

  “Nothing could be further from my thoughts,” he said.