by Sarah Rayne
Hilary stared at him and heard Bremner’s sharp gasp of surprise. ‘But sir – Chief – we’ll still be here ourselves. Nobody would get in.’
‘Nobody should have got in last night,’ said Wagner, angrily. ‘But we know that somebody did.’ He looked back at Hilary. ‘Well, Sister? We’d give you every protection we could if you stayed, but it would serve all ends if you came with us. What about it?’
For a moment, Hilary did not speak. To go again to that dark, menace-drenched castle in the mountains . . .? Yes, but this time in the company of all the King’s horses and all the King’s men . . . And supposing Ladislas tried to get into the convent again? What had Wagner said: ‘Supposing he tries to do so again tonight? Or sends someone else . . .? Hilary remembered with a shudder Janos at Csejthe, and Ficzko who had scuttled across the courtyard after Catherine at Varanno. The gnome magicians with their stunted warped bodies that could slip through chinks in houses, where ordinary-sized humans could not go . . .
She took a deep breath and said, ‘Will you tell Reverend Mother or shall I?’
Chapter Thirty-eight
Michael and Tobias had tried to call through to CrnPrag on the small intercom fixed to the gates as soon as they drew up outside. Tobias had propped the car bonnet open and hunted in the boot for a grease-stained rag to drape over the radiator grille, which he insisted would lend their story verisimilitude. He had appeared to rather enjoy putting this artistic touch to the tale they were going to tell about a split radiator hose and Michael had grinned to himself.
But whoever lived inside CrnPrag either did not hear or did not care about ill-starred travellers who broke down outside their high walls and requested help. Michael heard the sharp peremptory buzz as Tobias depressed the button of the intercom, and he heard, as well, the stubborn silence that followed it.
‘No response at all,’ said Tobias at last. ‘Perhaps there is no one there, although I think that is unlikely.’
‘I think it’s unlikely as well. I think there’s probably some kind of code to get in to the wretched place,’ said Michael, angrily. ‘And unless it’s used, they simply don’t answer. It’s something I should have thought of. You don’t get inside nightmare mansions without the correct sequence of knocks, Tobias. It’s in all the best fairy stories. Open Sesame and new lamps for old. Or even, “Open, locks, to the dead man’s hand”. Hell and damnation I ought to have foreseen this!’
‘We revert to the other plan?’ asked Tobias, practically.
‘Sneaking in after anyone who goes up? Yes, it’s not as good as the other idea and it’s much riskier, but there’s nothing else for it. Let’s simply wait it out for a time. You never know, I might get a sudden inspiration.’
Tobias said, ‘I have brought some.’
‘Some what?’
‘Inspiration,’ said Tobias and Michael heard the rhythmic sound of something being unscrewed and then the glug of liquid being poured. ‘It is only cider,’ explained Tobias, ‘because of driving and the adventure. It is not the cider you have in England, which everyone knows to be the best in the world. But this is very good cider and I have kept it cold in a flask. Also there are cheese rolls here and apple pie and a second flask with coffee.’
‘Do you ever go anywhere without being sure of your next meal, Tobias?’
‘Certainly not.’
As the day wore on, Michael felt twilight beginning to steal over the countryside. He was becoming accustomed to differentiating between the hours of the day by now: to feeling through his skin the sharp, alive anticipation of early morning, and then the busy top-of-the-hill feeling of mid-day. Late afternoon had a weary drag about it, as if people in nine-to-five jobs were beginning to flag and to contemplate struggling through their various rush hours to get home.
But the half-world of dusk had a feel all to itself, and in the Hampshire convent and later in Vienna Michael had begun to enjoy it.
He did not enjoy the dusk that was creeping over CrnPrag. They had half-opened the car windows to be sure of hearing the approach of any other vehicles, and Michael caught himself thinking that the twilight out here was eerie and filled with odd rustlings and scuttlings. Was it because they were close to Elizabeth’s domain? How far were they from Csejthe? In Elizabeth’s time it would have been many hours’ journey of course, but in today’s world it was not so very far. Did it feel eerie because it was on the boundaries of the dark mountain villages where Elizabeth had once prowled, searching for victims? We’re in a blood-tainted demi-world, he thought. If I could see, I might even see the sky becoming suffused with blood . . . Like the beginning of an old horror film when they used to pour dripping crimson over the opening credits so that the screen slowly became drenched in gore . . .
He was roused by Tobias touching his arm, and he pushed back the grotesque half-dreams and came awake at once. ‘Someone coming, Tobias?’
‘A car with a youngish man driving it. Approaching the gates, I think— Yes,’ said Tobias on a note of satisfaction. ‘Yes, he is stopping.’
Michael felt the black swathes of his blindness as angrily as if he had only just lost his sight. Damn! If I could just see! He said, ‘Keep talking, Tobias. Keep telling me what’s happening.’
But Tobias was already saying, ‘Whoever he is, he is winding down his window to speak into the intercom.’
‘Can you see him?’
‘Only to know he has dark hair. Be quiet, he may hear.’
But neither of them could hear if a pattern was punched out on the intercom, or if anything like a password was given. There was nothing until a whirring sound indicated that the gates were being opened.
‘Aren’t we following him? Tobias why aren’t we following him?’
‘Wait,’ said Tobias. ‘Something’s happening inside the house. Lights everywhere – I can’t see now, but when the gates opened I could see through the trees and lights were coming on at all the windows. Wait, we’ll get closer.’ He released the handbrake and let the car roll off the grass verge and onto something that sounded like a gravel drive. From his left, muffled by what he thought were trees or even a high wall, Michael caught the sound of several large-engined cars – vans? – being revved.
‘What’s happening?’
‘There are several vans being driven around to the front of the house,’ said Tobias. ‘I still can’t see very well, because the house is quite a long way from the gates. But I can see that there is more than one – three, four – I think there are five vans altogether. Large vehicles to carry several people—I do not know the word for them.’
‘Minibus? Coach?’
‘Little buses,’ said Tobias. ‘Such as used to transport small parties. Schools for children’s outings. Clubs.’
‘Yes, I understand. Can we get in?’
‘The gates are closed,’ said Tobias. ‘But I think the buses are all facing this way as if they will soon be driving out. The headlights are pointing towards us—’ He broke off and reversed the car very abruptly. There was a jolt as they went back onto the grass verge again and then the engine was switched off. ‘They’re coming,’ said Tobias. ‘Down the drive towards the road.’
‘Are we in darkness here?’
‘Yes, of course. They won’t see us.’
‘And even if they do, we’ve very innocently broken down.’
‘Exactly.’
Michael could hear the small buses trundling towards them and he could smell the exhaust fumes. It was very easy to visualise how it would all look: a long wide drive with pouring purple dusk, and the headlights slicing through it like lidless eyes, and exhausts belching carbon monoxide into the night. What on earth was happening? Had Ladislas Bathory somehow got wind of their approach? Had they been seen and recognised when they rang for admittance earlier on? Or was this some kind of exodus that took place regularly?
It did not seem believable that Ladislas knew they were there and was emptying CrnPrag because of it. Michael, his mind working furiously, was more i
nclined to think that this had something to do with Catherine and her brother. A gathering of the clans? The mini-buses were trundling past them now and vanishing into the night. Michael’s mind darted after them for a moment, trying to think where they might be going and if they should be followed. Damn! If I had my sight we could have brought two cars up here and split up. No, I’m wrong, we should stay together, no matter what.
He said, ‘Tobias, switch on and get in gear. The instant the last vehicle’s out, drive like a fiend through those gates before they shut.’
‘You are the boss,’ said Tobias, doing as he was requested.
‘I don’t think they’ll realise that we’re not among their number,’ said Michael. ‘I think we’ll mingle sufficiently well with their own headlights and the engines. All right?’
‘Yes, I agree. All right.’
Michael heard Tobias slide the car into gear and inch it forward. There was a moment when Michael had a sudden vivid impression of the car as a tiger or a panther crouching with its muscles quivering, ready to spring.
And then the car shot forward and Michael felt the heat and the petrol fumes as they passed within inches of one of the vehicles on its way out of CrnPrag.
There was the impression of driving up a long straight drive – trees on both sides! yes! – and then coming to a sedate stop.
‘We’re here?’
‘We’re here,’ said Tobias.
CrnPrag. The threshold of darkness. The nightmare mansion on the hill.
Catherine had begun to find it difficult to know which of the two worlds she was in. Am I in Elizabeth’s cruel, blood-drenched seventeenth century, where she prowled through the night, trapping virgins and snaring village girls? Or am I in the harsh strident twentieth century, flagging down lone women travellers and killing them in a lonely ritual that I do not properly understand?
She sought and grasped reality. She was inside CrnPrag, of course she was, and Elizabeth was long since dead, walled up alive in Csejthe Castle four centuries earlier.
Dead in her lonely windowless prison, dead towards nightfall, without crucifix, without light, abandoned by all . . . She lived like that for four years, thought Catherine. And then: how do I know that? I do know it, though. Just as I know that those two wretched ghoulish old women who served Elizabeth suffered the exemplum. Did I read it? If so when did I read it? Where? When did I know about the exemplum? Was it Elizabeth again, oozing the tainted memories into my mind? Memories dripping from her mind into mine . . . But Elizabeth never knew about the exemplum. Is it what they intend for Pietro now? Pietro reneged. That’s how they’d see it. He ran away, only none of them understood that he didn’t run away from the Family; he ran away from me. If Pietro is made to suffer the exemplum it will be my fault.
Without warning the door of the Women’s Ward was unlocked and flung open and Catherine came out of Elizabeth’s dark world as if she was coming up out of a greasy, stagnant lake. Oh God, yes, I am in CrnPrag. She looked towards the door, and saw Ladislas Bathory, his face sheet-white, his eyes blazing, standing on the threshold.
The other women in the ward began to cry and shrink against the wall, but Catherine did not move. From the rim of her vision, she was aware of Orsolya regarding Ladislas with cold dislike. There was a sudden darting movement as Orsolya scrabbled for the repulsive jar of spiders, and hugged it to her chest.
Ladislas ignored Orsolya and the others and went straight to Catherine’s bed, jerking her upright. Catherine struggled briefly, and his grip tightened. ‘We’re going to Csejthe,’ said Ladislas, his face close to hers, the eyes glittering. ‘You and I, my little wildcat, are going to Csejthe.’
Catherine fought to free her arms from his grip. ‘Why? I don’t understand—’
Ladislas shook her, and a little flame of madness flared in his eyes. ‘Because your precious Order of St Luke, your ridiculous House of Nuns, is setting the police on to us,’ he said. ‘And therefore we have to get away.’
Catherine stared at him. ‘Why? Why would the police come here?’
‘Because of what we are,’ said Ladislas, his lips curled back into a contemptuous sneer. ‘Because of what we cannot help being.’
Pointless to press for more. But Catherine’s mind was working furiously. ‘Are the police here now?’ she said. ‘Inside the house?’ Because if so, if the police were truly here, it might mean that Pietro could be saved.
Ladislas said, ‘They aren’t here yet, but they soon will be.’ The odd light glinted in his eyes again, and Catherine caught the exhilaration that was racing through him. He’s enjoying this. He’s threatened and he’s in danger but it’s spurring him on. How remarkable.
Ladislas was already half pushing Catherine ahead of him, out of the ward. Two of the guards were on watch at the door and as soon as they were through it, the men slammed the door and bolted it tightly. So Orsolya and the others are not coming with us.
Ladislas said, ‘Unless I’m mistaken the police will be at the gates before nightfall. I can feel the danger, Cat, my dear. I can smell it,’ he said, and for a moment the wolfsmile of their ancestress was so pronounced that it was as if Elizabeth herself was there with them. Elizabeth, fleeing her captors, exulting in the danger. Picking up the threads and the strands of menace and urgency and forging them into a single, seamless cloak to protect her . . . Yes, but at the end she failed. They shut her away in the dark for ever.
‘We’re leaving CrnPrag,’ said Ladislas, still holding her in a brutal hurting grip. ‘We’re going to Csejthe. And you’re going to witness your beloved Pietro’s punishment.’ He looked at her and the wolfsmile curved his lips. ‘The exemplum,’ he said, and then pushed her out of CrnPrag’s doors and into the twilight.
The urgency was out here as well. People were scurrying and running everywhere, shouting orders and gesturing to cars and to three or four small minibuses. The twilight was ugly with panic and with the harsh sounds of engines being revved. Catherine had just time to see some of the guards herding little groups of frightened dark-eyed people into the minibuses, prodding them with guns, and slamming and locking the doors once they were inside.
Ladislas jerked open the door of his own car and pushed Catherine into the back. The attendant who had baited Orsolya in the Women’s Ward was inside already, and he smiled his brutal smile at Catherine and snapped the seat-belt about her waist. From the driver’s seat, Ladislas flicked the electronic door lock and there was a click as all four doors locked. They are making very sure I don’t escape.
‘Our people,’ said Ladislas indicating the other vehicles falling into line behind them. The wolfsmile glinted again in the half-light. ‘They’re all coming with us, you see. All following,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘This is the exodus, Cat. The evanescence.’
As they swung out on to the road, Catherine saw Ladislas’s eyes on her in the driving mirror. ‘The police will come through the night to catch us, Cat, my dear,’ he said, and Catherine shivered at his tone. ‘Only when they get here, we shall be gone.’ The smile slid out again. ‘The stupid, unimaginative police will discover that the birds have flown, and that CrnPrag, their haunted sinister mansion, is innocent. And if they follow us to Csejthe, we shall be waiting for them.’
Michael was grateful for Tobias’s firm hand on his arm as they walked towards CrnPrag. He could feel the old house rearing up in front of them, like a huge soulless hulk, watching them approach.
Oho, two more for our dungeons. Two more to add grist to our mills . . . Grist was a nasty word. It was a grisly word. It made you think of giant mincing machines that crunched up your bones and vomited out squelched flesh and muscle and skin . . .
Mengele and his grisly experiments. If you read about Mengele’s work in a novel you would think it was far-fetched. It was impossible to believe and yet all the world knew it had taken place. Hitler, practising ethnic cleansing before the expression had been coined, trying to purge the world of Jews, writing his inhuman blueprint for a Master
Race . . . Is this where all those Bosnians and those other poor sods of refugees were brought? But if so, why?
Michael’s hand went automatically to the small recorder in his jacket pocket. Whatever’s here, I mustn’t miss a shred of it. And what about Catherine Bathory and her brother?
At his side, Tobias said, very softly, ‘The door is ajar,’ and Michael felt the hairs prickle on the back of his neck, because there was something quite enormously terrifying about doors of legend-drenched old mansions that were left ajar. Would they hear a disembodied voice bidding them to come inside . . .
They moved forward, Tobias’s hand firm and strong on Michael’s arm and Michael reminded himself that they were here to find out what had happened to Catherine and her brother, and also to look into the possible plight of a large number of refugees. He repeated words like ‘hostages’ and ‘ethnic minorities’ several times in his mind, and reminded himself that they might be entering a modern-day concentration camp.
But as they moved forward, a cool rather husky voice from behind, said, ‘Good evening, gentlemen. May I know what you are doing here?’
For several wild minutes Michael forgot about twentieth century horrors and tumbled dizzily into the dark fairytale world again, where snow queens whipped their sleds through ice-covered forests and evil sorceresses peered from beyond looking glass worlds.
Yes, and where Elizabeth Bathory once lived . . .
He whirled round, Tobias’s hand still on his arm, and the voice said again, ‘Who are you? How did you get in here?’ and this time, Michael registered that the owner was speaking in modern German, and whatever else witches and evil enchantresses do, they do not use modern German.
He reached for his own German, and said as suavely as possible, ‘Good evening. Please forgive us if we are trespassing, but our car has broken down and we are wanting to phone a garage for help.’