by Tony Evans
‘That is fortunate, since I too am ignorant of them! It is not a question I have ever put to him since he engaged me. I suspect that the needs of his daughter have much to do with it. Now, let me order us some refreshment, and then I will tell you what little I know.’
Dimov opened the door which led to his secretary’s office, spoke quietly and then returned, taking a seat in the armchair opposite me.
‘Firstly – and forgive me if you are aware of this fact – although Prince Bretin’s title is both ancient and genuine, it has far less significance that it would have in Britain or northern Europe. Our aristocracy was very widespread until the reforms of the last fifty years, and the country is full of Boyers, Counts, Lords and Princes, often with small incomes and modest occupations. Many of the younger members of such families have ceased to use their titles: indeed I believe that Bretin’s daughter, Princess Elena, rarely uses hers. As for Bretin himself: he values his heritage – his family are one of the oldest in Transylvania – but is by no means proud or aloof. His tenant farmers respect him, and will no doubt be sorry to see him go.’
I frowned. ‘Is it Prince Bretin’s intention to leave Transylvania?’
Dimov nodded. ‘So I understand – once the sale of the estate is completed. He has told me that wishes his daughter to have the benefit of a thorough education and to see something of society outside her current narrow confines: I believe he is considering settling in London or Paris at first. Elena Bretin has had the benefit of an excellent governess, but she is now nineteen years old and has outgrown the kind of tuition that can be provided at home.’
As Dimov spoke his secretary entered with a tea tray, and poured cups for both of us. When she had left the room I spoke to the Notary.
‘According to the deeds of the Davila Estate, Prince Bretin and his daughter reside at Vlados Monastery, described as “the family seat”. But it must surely be too large for a domestic residence.’
Dimov offered me a cup. ‘Only part of the building has ever been occupied by the family – the original Abbot’s House – and the rest of the building has fallen into disrepair. But of course you will see it for yourself tomorrow. I spoke to Prince Bretin only last week – he is most anxious to meet you.’
‘And I him. I’m sure that the transaction will be straightforward, as all the points at issue have already been agreed. Am I right in thinking that the Prince is a widower?’
The Notary nodded. ‘Yes, his wife passed away when Elena was very young. I think you will find Prince Bretin an interesting gentleman. He studied in London and Antwerp as a young man, and has a wide and eclectic range of interests. The library at Vlados is one of the best private collections in all Transylvania.’
‘It seems strange, then, that he wishes to sell his heritage. But I daresay that libraries can be transported if required. Now, if you will excuse me, I must be on my way. I have arranged to meet my wife at one o’clock and would not want to keep her waiting.’
*
My path back to the Golden Krone again took me through the old part of the town, and as I entered the maze of winding streets that led up to the central square I became conscious of a figure which walked some ten paces behind me. I paused and pretended to look into the plate glass window of a jeweller’s shop: the reflection gave me an excellent view of the other side of the street, and of a man crossing the road and standing opposite me, keeping me under observation. Surely there was something familiar about him – yes, he was the same elderly gentleman in a black cloak that I had seen earlier that day. I walked a few yards further, and glanced over my shoulder to see him following my footsteps once more. I looked quickly around and saw that there were no other pedestrians close by. In an instant I turned and stepped swiftly towards him. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then kept his ground. It was my intention to challenge him – an Englishman is not accustomed to being followed when he goes about his lawful business – but the old man pre-empted me.
‘Herr Harker?’ he asked in halting German. As he spoke he looked furtively up and down the street.
‘You are correct,’ I answered in the same language. ‘And who may you be, sir? I believe I saw you briefly this morning.’
‘Yes – this morning. And we have met before, almost five years ago. My name is Strug – Bruno Strug.’
My memory for names and faces is normally good, but try as I might I could not recall having met the man before. I made a quick calculation. “Almost five years ago” would be the spring of 1893 – the time of my first journey to Transylvania. Yes, that was it! Strug was the coach driver who had taken me from the Golden Krone to my rendezvous at the Borgo Pass – from whence I was taken in another carriage to Dracula’s castle. I remembered that Strug had delivered me to my destination an hour before the designated time, without telling me, in the hope that I would travel onwards with the rest of the passengers before the Count’s coachman arrived to collect me. His subterfuge had failed, but I had cause afterwards to be grateful for his attempt.
‘Yes, I remember,’ I said. ‘I have never thanked you for the service you tried to render. But how can I help you? What do you want from me?’ As I spoke I looked more closely at the old coachman. He seemed to have aged far more that the few years that had passed since I last saw him: his hair was pure white, and his face strained and thin.
Once more Strug looked about him. ‘I had hoped to follow you to a private place, where we might talk in safety. But let me speak now, while I still can. The evil that you and your friends overcame in 1893 has returned. For the last year or more the people of this region have lived in fear. Herr Harker, you must be on your guard. I can say no more, and perhaps should not have said as much. Now I must go. I do not believe that we will meet again.’
Chapter 3
Some three hours after my disturbing conversation with the old coachman Mina and I were seated in an old-fashioned calèche, our luggage piled in the seat behind us, on our journey east to the small village of Urmuz. As soon as I had met Mina at the Golden Krone I had recounted every detail of my encounter with Bruno Strug, and had suggested whilst there was probably no truth in his warning, the most prudent course would be for her to return to Vienna – or indeed England – whilst I completed my legal arrangements with Prince Andrei Bretin and the Notary. It had hardly surprised me when Mina had refused, pointing out the last time I had stayed alone in Transylvania, the experience had almost cost me my life. Since it was inconceivable that both of us should leave the country – I had my professional reputation to consider – we decided that we would continue with our plans, albeit circumspectly. I did, however, make our continued presence in the province dependent upon one condition, to which Mina agreed. Thus before we left Bistritz I sent a telegram to Professor Van Helsing in Vienna, recounting what I had been told by Strug. Now at least one other person would be aware of the warning given to us by the old coach driver.
*
As we approached Urmuz in the late afternoon the road became more rugged by the mile, although it was no obstacle to our sturdy four-wheeler and two strong horses: I had hired the equipage from the manageress of the Golden Krone for as long as we needed it. The landscape too became wilder, with steep grassy slopes on either side of the pathway, interspersed with patches of dense pinewoods and rocky ravines. Some of the larger fields were grazed with a hardy, shaggy-coated breed of cattle which I did not recognise, no doubt well suited to the harsh winters of the region. The air was clear, and although sunset was rapidly approaching a range of snow-topped peaks could be seen far to the east. Even from this distance they appeared bleak and inhospitable.
Mina pointed in the direction of my gaze. ‘The Carpathian Mountains. Isn’t that where Vlados Monastery is situated?’
‘It’s built on the lower slopes. We must dress warmly when we go there tomorrow afternoon.’
Mina nodded. ‘It seems strange that we are to visit Prince Bretin there. Would it not have been more convenient to have met him in Urmuz – or
even Bistritz? I dare say he could have brought the relevant papers with him.’
‘That is true. However, Lord Tavistock was very specific in the matter. He asked Maurice Joplin to make sure that I personally saw the Bretin family seat. It is the most significant building in the Davila Estate, after all, and of historic importance. Of course we have Dimov’s detailed description in the deeds of sale, but I believe Lord Tavistock is wise – the old saying regarding “a pig in a poke” comes to mind. I’ve also been asked to look at one or two of the larger farms on the estate – no doubt Prince Bretin will be able to suggest somewhere suitable.’
A little later we passed between two granite outcrops, and the road ahead dropped down towards what was clearly the hamlet of Urmuz. I reined in our horses and we surveyed the small settlement below us.
I pointed to a pair of stone buildings which lay closest to us, and seemed to be of superior quality to the rest. The larger of the two was constructed in the Easter Orthodox style, topped by an ornate dome.
‘That seems to be the church,’ I said. ‘According to Dimov’s documents there are only 350 or so inhabitants of the village – the priest must have a small congregation, unless the populace are particularly pious. Now, let us try to find our lodgings. Mr Joplin tells me that he has been assured that the Kraznevin Inn will be very acceptable. As I believe that it is also the only hostelry in Urmuz, we will have to hope that his informant is correct.’
*
Fortunately the inn was as we had hoped: simple, but well-managed, neat and clean. And although the landlord, Peter Seypos, spoke no English and only very limited German, his waiter and general factotum was passably fluent in both. Through the good offices of this person – Wolski by name – we were able to obtain stabling for our carriage and horses, and a comfortable bedroom for ourselves for as long as we wished.
The establishment followed the traditional practice whereby travellers dined in the same large room where drinks were served to any who wanted them. Thus later that evening Mina and I found ourselves seated at a heavy oak table in the corner of the low-ceilinged tavern, in front of two large plates of food which Wolski had served to us. There had been only one hot dish prepared that night, and fortunately it was excellent: a tender and spicy compilation of chicken, paprika, red peppers and onions. Wolski had brought us a flagon of local wine – Golden Mediasch – and a jug of cold spring water. The open log fire at the end of the room burned brightly, and the old oil lamps which hung from the walls cast a yellow glow upon the assembled company.
Mina raised her glass towards me and smiled. ‘This is charming, Jonathan. If we could exchange our chicken and wine for cold beef and beer, we might well be in the Cheshire Cheese in Fleet Street, circa 1700.’
I looked around the room. There were perhaps a dozen others present, all male, including three elderly gentlemen eating at a table in the far corner, and a solitary diner seated near us who had almost completed his meal. Four of the company, standing and drinking wine, were dressed in the traditional clothes of the Slovak: I remembered the baggy trousers, white linen shirts and wide studded belts from my last visit to Transylvania. A smaller chamber led off the one in which we sat, and the cheerful noises and snatches of song which emanated from it suggested that it was occupied by younger and more enthusiastic drinkers.
I lowered my voice and bent towards Mina. ‘Do you not find it strange that we have excited virtually no interest since our arrival here? There has been not one glance in our direction since we sat down.’
‘Perhaps the area is used to foreign visitors,’ she said. ‘Although I have not seen any obvious examples of the check-suited English tourist since we left Vienna. Are you disappointed, Jonathan? I admit that if this was a scene in my latest book, a sullen and inauspicious silence would have descended as soon as we entered the room.’
‘Followed no doubt by a hurried exodus of frightened peasants, the moment that I mentioned…’
Before I could complete my sentence, a sudden outburst of shouting came from the little room next to ours. It was the voice of a woman, and although I could not understand the words – I guessed they were Slovak or Serbian – they conveyed both anger and distress. A moment later a man of about forty or forty-five ran into the room, followed swiftly by a woman some years younger. He reached the serving counter and turned to face his pursuer: as he did so he lost his footing, and hauled himself back to his feet with some difficulty. Once upright again he swayed gently from side to side.
‘That man is intoxicated!’ Mina whispered. ‘His wife must have come to bring him home.’
Mina’s scenario seemed on the face of it very likely, but there was something about the extreme anguish shown by the poor woman which suggested to me that there was something else at issue. She spoke a few words more, and her husband – if such he was – bent his head in sorrow at her words. A moment later two other men entered from the adjoining room and gently led the couple away – but not before the woman gave vent to a further torrent of wailing and tears, more appropriate to a sudden bereavement than the annoyance of a drunken husband.
I looked at Mina, who like me was surprised and concerned at what we had witnessed. ‘I wish we knew what words had passed,’ she said. ‘I do not believe in interfering in the personal business of another, but if there was some way we could assist that poor lady – she appears horribly upset.’
I was about to suggest that we ask Wolski for an explanation when I noticed that the man who had been eating his dinner not far from us was standing by our table. He pointed to an empty chair.
‘May I sit down?’ he asked. His excellent English was only slightly accented. ‘You are foreigners – forgive the observation – and are naturally concerned about the scene you have witnessed. It is perhaps best that you speak to me about it, rather than ask others. You see, the matter is a very delicate one. Let me introduce myself: my name is Franz Codrescu, but everyone calls me Franz.’
Mina and I shook hands with our new acquaintance.
‘I am Jonathan Harker,’ I said. ‘And this is my wife Mina.’ As I spoke I observed Franz carefully. He was sixty or more years old, and wore a good quality tweed coat and starched white shirt. The cut of his clothes and his general bearing suggested that he was more sophisticated than his compatriots and his sharp eyes and steady gaze conveyed a keen intelligence.
‘You are a resident of Urmuz?’ Mina asked.
Franz smiled. ‘I was born just a few miles from the village. However, I left when I was a young man, and only returned when I retired from my post at Zagreb University, where I was a tutor in Slavonic and European Languages. I now live in a small house in the village. As a single man, with no love of cooking – and no wish to share my dwelling with a servant – I am afraid that this inn is something of a second home. However, enough of my tedious biography. Let me explain what lies behind the unfortunate scene which you have just witnessed.’
Before Franz continued, I insisted on ordering another flagon of Mediasch. As I poured him a drink, I looked swiftly around the room: no one was paying the three of us any attention.
‘The poor woman who you have just see is Maria Polgar. She had come to take her husband Lajos – the tipsy fellow – home: they are the tenants of a small farm on the Davila Estate, about six miles from here. But as you undoubtedly realised, there is more to the scene than that. Until six months ago Lajos Polgar rarely touched alcohol – now he is here almost every evening, sometimes so drunk that he’s unable to walk home, and has to sleep in the stable.’
Mina interjected. ‘He seemed to have a great sadness, even in the fleeting glimpse we had of him.’
‘You are most perceptive, Mrs Harker. He drinks in an attempt to forget, poor fellow. Before tragedy struck the family, the Polgars had two children, upon whom they doted. The oldest, a clever young man called Nicolaus, was away at his studies in Germany at the time. Their daughter Margit was fourteen, and of course lived at home. One morning, about six months ago, Lajos
Polgar left the farm to travel to Klausenburg: but before he had gone five miles his horse fell lame. He turned round and led his horse home on foot, and when he was almost home again, and passing through a small patch of woodland, he came upon a dreadful sight.
‘There on the path in front of him was his daughter Margit, stone dead. It was clear that she had been the victim of a vile and savage assault. Of course the police were summoned at once from Bistritz, but no clue as to the assailant was ever found. According to Margit’s mother, an hour or so after her father had left for Klausenburg the girl had become very agitated, and had then left the house for no apparent reason. It was thought that she may have had an assignation, but no evidence of an alliance with any man or youth was ever discovered.’
‘What a dreadful story,’ Mina said. ‘We are grateful for your information, Mr – er – Franz.’
Our new friend got to his feet. ‘Not at all. Now, I must not intrude on your company any longer. I hope we will meet again. Goodnight to you, and God’s blessings, Mr and Mrs Harker.’
At that the gentleman said his goodbyes to the landlord and several others of the company, then left. I remarked to Mina on his singular lack of curiosity regarding the two of us: not once in our conversation had he asked about our reason for visiting Transylvania, or how long we intended to stay in Urmuz. And although I believed that what Franz had told us about the Polgars’ tragedy was true, I had been left with the distinct impression that he knew more than he had said about the matter.
*
As it happened the harrowing scene in the tap room was not the last disturbing event that I was to experience that evening. Just after midnight I awoke feeling thirsty, no doubt as a result of the spicy chicken we had enjoyed for dinner. Mina lay fast asleep beside me, and taking care not to disturb her I crossed the room to the dressing table. To my annoyance the water jug was empty. I slipped on my dressing gown and slippers and picked up the candle holder and matches. Once I had closed the door behind me I lit my candle and made my way as quietly as possible down the old oak staircase.