SILENT (a psychological thriller, combining mystery, crime and suspense)

by D. M. Mitchell

  It took a little while for their eyes to adjust to the gloom inside, in spite of the fact that a number of oil lamps burned fiercely. The floor was of plain marble in a mottled-brown colour, a fine layer of dust clouding its sheen. Above them hung a spidery chandelier with empty candle sconces and dusty crystal evidence that it hadn’t been lit in a long time. Ahead of them was a wide staircase, flopped out onto the tiles like a grotesque brown tongue; its dark wooden steps swept upwards to an upper balcony. The treads were part-carpeted, but it looked faded and worn. Dark paper from a bygone age lined the walls, here and there the dull flash of gold picture frames; empty vases that once must have held lush broad-leaved plants, stood on rosewood furniture pressed tight against the walls, alongside marble busts of what appeared to be Roman emperors.

  But the piece that immediately caught the eye was a life-size bust in white marble of a handsome young man, his head a mass of writing curls, his face angled downwards, his languid eyes pointing curiously to the floor. It was in such a prominent position, high on its black marble plinth that it obviously must have been of some significance to its owner. The name engraved into the marble was Antinous.

  ‘This is Uncle Zsigmund,’ Horvat introduced the old man, who immediately offered a half-bow to each of them. ‘As I said, he has been in the service of Baron Dragutin since he was a child. He met his wife, Margit, in the castle, and was married in this very room. They have been tending to the castle ever since and are the last of Baron Dragutin’s servants. They have been waiting for you, Mr Mason.’

  Mason shook the man’s hand, but the contact was brief on the servant’s part. Once again he refused to look directly into Mason’s face. Now he could understand why this place was gradually going to seed with only a couple of old people to look after it. It was a massive undertaking.

  The old man took their hats and coats and told them he’d prepared a fire in the drawing room. His wife would be cooking something for them soon, now that they were finally here, and he asked if they’d like refreshments in the meantime. Horvat took him to one side to engage him in hushed conversation and the old man hung up the coats and wandered away.

  ‘Come through to the drawing room,’ he said. ‘Let’s not stand on ceremony.’

  ‘Uncle Zsigmund?’ said Betsy leaning close to Mason as they followed Horvat deeper into Castle Dragutin.

  He smiled. ‘It’s a polite Hungarian term for addressing older people. Uncle for the men, aunts for the ladies. It doesn’t mean there’s a family connection in the way you’re used to back home.’

  ‘Talking of home, how is all this making you feel? What’s it like being in Slavonia, is it strange?’

  ‘Yeah, very strange,’ he admitted. ‘But I’m surprised how much is still inside me that I’d pushed away in order to feel more American.’ He laughed. ‘Even my accent, I notice, has become more pronounced since we came here. Isn’t that bizarre?’

  ‘Perhaps you are turning into Baron Dragutin,’ she said, chuckling. She linked her arm through his, aware that Davey was behind them staring hard.

  Mason could feel the cold of her hand through the sleeve of his jacket. ‘And you will become my baroness!’ he said.

  There was a log fire blazing in the maw of a huge stone fireplace, yet the warmth did not penetrate all corners of the immense room. They sat on a variety of chairs and sofas pulled up close to the fire. Mason counted five oil lamps burning in strategic places around the room, their flickering causing the deep shadows to dance on the monstrous pieces of highly carved wooden furniture that, in this subdued light, took on the appearance of rocky outcrops.

  Zsigmund came in, offered and poured warming spirits into glasses that caught the firelight. He went over to the heavy drapes that hung long and thick at two tall windows and drew them against the encroaching night.

  ‘He tells me snow is on its way,’ said Horvat, raising his glass and studying the amber liquid inside. He sipped at it carefully, as if it were hot.

  ‘Is that a problem?’ asked Mason.

  Horvat shrugged. ‘The driver will be back for us in three days, time for us to conclude business, for you to take a look around the castle and its grounds, and time to rest in preparation for your long journey back home. Snow is a frequent visitor here, even at this time of year, but as with everything we can only go with the flow of nature.’ He set the glass down on a small table. ‘Your rooms have been prepared. There is a fire laid in each and Margit has warmed all the beds with pans of coal. It is cold and much of the place has been little lived in, but your rooms will soon feel comfortable enough. The castle’s walls are very thick and will keep the cold winds at bay. It isn’t for nothing that the wind that rushes down from the cold mountains and across the lake to the castle is called Wolf’s Teeth. California it isn’t, I’m afraid.’

  Presently they caught their first sight of Zsigmund’s wife, Margit. Though she looked as old as him she seemed in a far more robust condition; she was a rounded woman, large, cheeks weathered red, eyes but tiny black slits when she smiled. She wore the same style dress as the woman in the village, ankle-length black dress and pale blouse over the top; she also sported a grey-white apron around her considerable middle. She came into the drawing room and told Horvat that food was ready to be served.

  ‘Thank heaven!’ said Betsy. ‘I’m famished!’

  They filed into the dining room, Horvat at their head showing the way. Again a fire crackled in the cavernous grate of a huge fireplace. A long mahogany table sat in the centre of the oppressively dark room. The table had been laid for five, silver candelabras set with guttering candles in the middle, the silver cutlery reflecting back the candle flames like sparks. They sat down and Mason commented on the extra place that had been set.

  ‘Who is that for?’ he asked. ‘Is someone joining us?’

  Horvat arranged his napkin and didn’t look at Mason. ‘It is set for Baron Dragutin. It was a stipulation of his that a place at the table should always be set for him, even after he is dead.’

  ‘How peculiar!’ said Betsy, eyeing the empty chair. ‘It’s almost as if he might walk in at any moment.’

  But in spite of the faded grandeur of the room and the majestic table settings, the food when it came was a bland and plain affair. A thin vegetable soup to start, some kind of flavourless chicken dish for the main course, the whole concluding with a traditional Slavonian dish of layered pastry filled with raisins, nuts, cottage cheese and apple.

  ‘I’d kill for a coffee,’ Mason said when the last of the empty dishes had been removed. Horvat told him they had no coffee, but tea aplenty. It was at this point, as Mason was glancing around the room, his eyes having grown accustomed to the limited light, that he caught sight of the large black and white print held by a broad ebony frame.

  ‘That is a curious picture to have in a dining room,’ he observed.

  At first he simply thought it depicted a smiling woman in some kind of bucolic wooded glade, but he saw the shape on the left of the picture was not a tree as he had imagined, but the body of a man hanging from a tree’s bough. On his right shoulder a crow was perched, pecking at his dead eye. Mason rose from his seat out of curiosity, went closer to the picture. The hanged man was barefoot, had his hands tied behind his back, two more crows on the limb from which he hung awaiting their turn to feast on the corpse. The woman, it turned out, was pregnant, a basket over one arm, a pitcher of wine in the other hand. There was a lake in the background not unlike the lake outside Castle Dragutin, on which two boats sailed serenely past. On the whole the entire picture was quietly disturbing.

  ‘It was originally a pen and ink drawing created in 1525.’ Horvat came to his side. ‘This was one of the Baron’s favourite pieces. It is a very old print. He greatly admired this Swiss artist, Urs Graf. Not for his work particularly, though it has some artistic merits; he admired him for his personal attributes. Graf was a cruel man, a foul-mouthed, vulgar mercenary who relished the bloody violence and the rape and the p
illage that accompanied war. He had no need to resort to becoming a landsknecht – the name of the feared Swiss mercenaries – he did not need the money. Slaughter, you see, was his abiding pleasure. And violence of any kind. He once attacked a crippled man in the city of Basle, a man with whom he hadn’t exchanged a single word. Sport? Drink? Who can say? He was, by all accounts, a repulsive man. This print is of a camp follower who has come across a hanged soldier, but if you are looking for some kind of treatise on the abiding injustice of a cruel military system or some wider social comment you would be sadly mistaken. Graf drew this because it gave him a thrill to do so.’

  ‘And you say my father actually admired the man?’

  ‘Very much so. You see, in Urs Graf he saw a distinct similarity to himself. Your father was also a mercenary in his younger days, seeking out any war he could find. But he had no need to do so, and he was never one for fighting the cause of larger political or social ideals. He was, like Graf, a self-centred man whose aim was to live life to the full, live it for all the base pleasures it offered, and suffice to say he drank his fill of every vice available.’ Horvat smiled thinly. ‘But it is of no business of mine to pass judgement on a man’s desires or carnal drives. Only God has the authority to do that, and any earthly sins that must one day be accounted for will be dealt with by Him and Him alone.’

  ‘Sins?’

  ‘It is growing late,’ Horvat said,’ ‘and we are all tired after our long journey.’ Strangely, his expression as he looked upon Mason was one of sorrow. ‘Tomorrow I shall tell you more about your father.’

  Mason studied the picture again. The woman’s moonlike face seemed to be focused on him, her leering smile almost mocking.

  * * * *

  13

  A Living Soul

  He awoke shivering. At first he didn’t know where he was and was seized by a blind panic as his eyes scanned the strange room. Then realisation seeped in and he sat there in bed feeling slightly foolish.

  The fire had gone out and was but a mound of cold grey ash in the grate. The room had seemed cheerful enough as he clambered under the heavy sheets the night before, the fire casting a warm comforting glow on the joyless walls. He’d fallen instantly asleep. But the morning stood in sharp contrast. The air was cold and damp and the weighty top blanket felt clammy and uncomfortable to the touch. It forced him from his bed. Rick Mason went immediately to the long window and threw back the drapes.

  The light was leaden, the sky filled with a crawling sludge of dour cloud; a faintly luminous mist hung over the lake, languidly tearing off into feathery strips beneath the light-fingered ministrations of a cruising breeze. There appeared to be no colour. The world was monochrome. It did not lift the spirits; it chilled the soul.

  The mood at breakfast was rather tepid. Mason put it down to them all suffering the last dregs of tiredness, yet he thought there was more to it than that. It was as if the castle were exerting some kind of subliminal influence over them. Or perhaps it was just him, he thought, allowing his imagination to run away with itself. After all, he was the only one returning to the place of his birth and that had to have some kind of effect on you. It hadn’t been an easy time for him. So many new things for his mind to assimilate. The discovery of his true mother and father, the inheritance, the fact he was largely Hungarian by blood, which didn’t sit well with him. He’d gone from being one of a people oppressed, to the oppressor. This explained a great deal about why his mother – he really must stop thinking that – became so hostile towards him. She knew the truth about his birth; the truth about his father. And why had she adopted him in the first place? What on earth had gone on?

  What he did find a little disconcerting was the behaviour of Zsigmund and Margit towards him. Neither of them would look him directly in the eye, at least not for more than a second or two. Initially he wondered whether it was some kind of cultural deference, a hangover from the days of Baron Dragutin, but the more he studied them the more he was convinced he detected a little fear in them. Yet only with him. With any of the others, even cold old Horvat, they were as warm and as affable as if they’d truly been their aunt and uncle. When the time was right, he told himself, he would ask Horvat about it. It was probable it was all in his imagination again.

  What wasn’t in his imagination, though, was the custom of setting out his father’s place at the table. That was decidedly strange. Almost as if he were still there in spirit; that they were afraid not to set it lest something terrible befall them. Stranger still was that Horvat didn’t think anything of it.

  Afterwards, when a weak Sun came out to burn away the last of the mist, Mason persuaded Betsy to take a walk with him outside whist Davey was up in his room. He told her he had something important to ask her.

  They wandered into a sprawling courtyard, a rectangle of overgrown lawn at its centre on which stood a beautifully carved fountain consisting of a tangle of naked water nymphs with limbs so entwined it was difficult to separate out one from the other. No water flowed, only green streaks where it had once run many years ago. A row of empty, forlorn-looking stables lined one wall, but it was an ivy-wreathed arched doorway that they were drawn to at the far end of the courtyard.

  On pushing the stiff-hinged door open they found it took them into what remained of an overgrown garden constructed in tiers on the steep hillside, a stone path snaking downwards. Beyond was a fine uninterrupted view of the solemn lake, the smudged blue shapes of mountains in the hazy distance.

  ‘This is weird, huh?’ he said as they paused by a stone balustrade encrusted with plates of lichen and miniature meadows of moss. ‘All this…’

  ‘It’s hard to believe it even exists,’ she admitted. ‘It’s like something from a strange dream.’

  ‘Or a strange nightmare,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘It should be beautiful, but everything is in a state of decay.’ His fingers pulled away a piece of crumbling masonry, which broke easily under his fingers and fell as dust to the ground.

  ‘It needs a few improvements carrying out, that’s for sure.’ she quipped.

  She turned to face him. He found he could hardly take his eyes off her; drank in every tiny inch of her beautiful features; the down on her cheeks; the puffed red pillows of her lips; the gem-like quality of her eyes.

  ‘Why are you staring?’ she asked. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘No, everything is just perfect. You are just perfect.’

  She laughed. ‘Rick, you try to be a charmer but you are not very skilled at it.’

  ‘I’m hurt,’ he said with a smile and put a hand to his heart. ‘I’m trying to be genuine.’

  ‘And I always find I’m wondering whether it is you that speaks, or whether it’s the actor pretending to be someone else.’

  ‘Never think that!’ he said. ‘I could never be like that with you. I care too much for you.’

  ‘Really?’ she said, raising a brow.

  ‘Really.’ His hands gripped the stone balustrade and he surveyed the wilderness before him. ‘The thing is, Betsy, I really do care for you. I love you.’

  Her face fell serious. ‘Love me? Careful, Rick, I don’t take too kindly to those sorts of slide-off-the-tongue sentiments. I’ve heard them before.’

  ‘But you haven’t heard it from me. I love you, Betsy Bellamy. I knew it from the moment I first met you. Call me a romantic fool, but I can’t help the way you make me feel. I don’t ever want to be apart from you. I want to be with you always.’

  ‘You don’t know me, Rick…’

  ‘I know enough, and we can spend time getting to know one another.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me something here, Rick?’

  ‘Will you marry me?’

  ‘Are you serious?’ she laughed. ‘We’ve hardly known each other.’

  ‘I know more than enough to know I want you to be my wife, to have children with you, to grow old and plant roses together.’

  ‘Roses? You’re rambling.’

  He took he
r hand. It was deathly cold. ‘Will you marry me?’

  She slipped it from his grasp. ‘I’m very flattered, Rick…’

  ‘Flattered? You don’t care for me, is that it?’ His face clouded. ‘Hell, I’m sorry, Betsy, I’ve made a goddamn fool of myself. It’s all this, what’s happening to me, I guess…’

  ‘It’s not that!’ she exclaimed. ‘I care for you too. You have made me so happy. You’ve changed my life in so many ways. But I simply don’t want to be someone’s wife and mother. I want a career for myself. I want to be an actress so desperately, and the two things are not easy to reconcile.’

  ‘That’s no problem,’ he said, his eyes lighting up. ‘You can have anything you please. You can be an actress – you will be an actress. I will support you every step of the way.’

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘Cross my heart, hope to die!’ he said. ‘I will not take that away from you. Just say you’ll become my wife, say you’ll marry me.’

  ‘And suppose I say yes, will you think it’s because I’m a title-grabbing woman after your inheritance?’

  He looked momentarily confused. ‘What? God no! I never once gave it a thought, and anyhow, I’m not certain what all this means yet. However, now we’re onto it, every baron needs his baroness. And what a stage name, eh? Baroness Betsy Mason! I can see it in lights now.’

  ‘Baroness Betsy Bellamy,’ she corrected.

  ‘Whatever, I don’t care. Is that a yes, then?’

  ‘Not until you have gone down on one knee and proposed properly, like any self-respecting baron would.’

  He bent down to the stone flags, reached up and took hold of her hand again. ‘Betsy Bellamy, will you become my wife?’

  ‘Why, Baron Rick Mason, a lady would find it hard to resist such a romantic proposition, and the prospects of inheriting your mouldy old castle. Yes, I’ll marry you.’