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

by D. M. Mitchell

  ‘You must sign papers to get your two-million dollars, Mr Mason. And with the money comes the castle. You cannot have one without the other. They are legally bound together.’

  ‘That’s what we call a done deal in the States, Mr Horvat.’

  ‘I did not make the rules, Mr Mason, I merely follow instructions.’

  ‘So you keep saying. It’s easy to keep telling yourself that isn’t it, Mr Horvat?’

  It appeared to strike home, for he flinched as if stung on the cheek by a bee. Then he recomposed himself immediately. ‘Perhaps you will reconsider, in time. The castle exerts a strange hold on people. It has a habit of being able to pull you back time after time.’

  ‘Well not this guy. I’ll find some way of disposing of this place, one way or another. You’ll have to help me, Mr Horvat.’

  ‘I cannot do that. I am sorry.’

  ‘My father is dead. You may work for me now.’

  ‘Alas, this will be my final act for Castle Dragutin. Once the business of the will is concluded I shall be retiring. I will be free of having to work for anyone.’

  ‘Help me out here, Mr Horvat.’

  He shook his head firmly. ‘I wish to leave Castle Dragutin and never return. It has sapped much of my life, Mr Mason. But I wish you the very best for the future, whosoever you deal with. But my final word; Castle Dragutin is with you now, even if you do not wish it. It is destined forever to be a part of you. It is an inescapable truth.’

  At the end of the second day at Castle Dragutin the mood of the travellers had plummeted. The evening meal was subdued, though they had brought in extra lamps to brighten the room, and stacked the fire high with logs. They could hear the snow rattling against the window panes like rice being tossed onto an open umbrella. Mason didn’t mention the fact he was now a millionaire, or the curious bindings of the will. For now he thought he’d keep that to himself.

  Everyone appeared to be occupied with their own thoughts. Davey and Betsy were unusually quiet. Horvat explained that the snow might delay their departure by a day or so, but that it wouldn’t interfere greatly with their travel arrangements and the various tickets booked for trains and ships, provided the weather didn’t take a drastic turn for the worse. He made it clear to Mason once again that after he’d said goodbye to them all at Slavonska Pozega that would be the end of his dealings with the party and with the Dragutin estate. He finished his meal in unassailable silence and retired to his room. Davey excused himself and went to his room also, leaving Betsy reading a sheaf of papers by the fire and Mason staring at the dancing flames through a brandy glass. She appeared quite absorbed by what she was reading.

  ‘What have you got there, Betsy?’ he asked.

  ‘Something Davey has written. He wants me to read it through, tell him what I think.’

  It was the first evidence he’d seen of Davey’s writing. ‘Can I take a look?’ he asked.

  She seemed a little reluctant, but handed him a few sheets of paper. ‘It’s a novel he’s working on,’ she explained.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he said. ‘You look a tad down. I would have expected, you know, in light of me asking you to…you know.’

  ‘Down? So do you,’ she noticed. ‘I’m fine,’ she added. ‘Just the cold, I think, and this place.’

  He read the hand-written story. Finally he laid the papers on his lap. ‘This is great, Betsy. I had no idea he was this good.’

  ‘He has a talent,’ she said.

  ‘Thing is, where did he learn to write like this? I mean, he’s a mechanic, handyman, that kind of thing.’

  She held her hand out for the papers. ‘Natural gift, I suppose.’

  ‘Come on, Betsy, this is professional stuff…’

  ‘I don’t want to discuss it, Rick,’ she said smartly, placing the papers down on a table.

  Davey entered the room. He glanced at his writing, picked it up and folded it. ‘Just been saying, that’s good writing, Davey,’ complimented Mason.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Davey, sitting down and pouring out a drink. He put his pipe into his mouth, but had no tobacco to fill it with. He sat quietly, joining them in looking into the fire.

  ‘Hell, this is so gloomy!’ Mason said. He went over to a line of bottles and brought a couple back. He cracked them open. ‘Let’s let our hair down!’

  The mood shifted perceptibly as the alcohol started to flow freely. Even Davey laughed a little, relaxing for the very first time.

  ‘This castle, this entire country, it’s very strange,’ Davey observed.

  ‘It gets stranger,’ said Mason as the wind howled around the walls. He went on to explain what Horvat had told him about his father, his murdered mother, the curse, the kidnapping by bandits and finally the condition in the will barring him from selling the castle. Discussing it with Betsy and Davey had made him see the absurdity, even humorous side, to the entire thing.

  ‘You don’t really believe in that curse-thing, do you?’ Betsy said with a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

  He laughed. ‘Not at all. A pact with the devil? It shows how backward this place is. It would make a great story though, eh, Davey? All the makings of a gothic novel.’

  As if in approval the wind rushed down the chimney and caused the logs to spark and spit.

  ‘This room – this castle – it reminds me of a huge set from a Hollywood movie,’ Betsy observed dreamily, a glass of wine held to her lips. ‘A creepy movie, all cobwebs, dust and death. It gives me the chills.’

  Mason placed his glass down on a table, his brows furrowing thoughtfully. ‘Yes, you can imagine the movie, can’t you? A snowstorm ravaging the dark mountain forests. A coach is travelling a lonely road, through a narrow mountain pass overlooked by towering mountains. It’s bringing with it a young woman to Castle Dragutin. The castle is perched on its lofty rock, white against a boiling, snow-flecked sky…’

  ‘Yeah, and there’s an old man, like Horvat,’ Davey suggested. ‘He’s the guy who’s brought the young woman here. Her name is Dorottya, and she’s going to be the bride of Baron Dragutin.’ He set his glass down alongside Mason’s and leant forward in his chair. Betsy eyed him uncertainly. ‘But we don’t see the Baron at first. He’s kept back. We get hints of him, hints of what he’s done in the past, what he continues to do. Women going missing in the villages. That kind of thing. Then we get glimpses of him in his uniform, lurking in the shadows as the young woman waits to meet her suitor. She’s seen portraits of the handsome young man, but she is not aware of his true age. She’s been tricked. She doesn’t know what’s in store for her, because she’s to be forced into marriage, forced to bear Baron Dragutin’s son to satisfy the pact he made with the devil.’

  ‘You’ve had far too much to drink,’ said Betsy, the two men now so close together that their heads were almost touching.

  Mason ignored her and continued. ‘Then the chilling moment when she meets Baron Dragutin in the mask of Antinous…’

  ‘And then, when his true face is eventually unveiled…’ Davey said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mason. ‘The tension builds, the sense of horror grows. The woman has unlocked the secrets of Dragutin, and one last secret remains; what does he look like? She both fears and needs to see what lies behind the pretty-faced mask.’

  ‘A close-up,’ said Davey. ‘Head and shoulders of Dragutin.’

  ‘No, cut in close, almost to his face,’ suggested Mason. ‘Increase the horror. Dragutin’s hands go up to the mask…’

  ‘Dorottya puts her hand to her mouth in terror, but she can’t turn away. She is transfixed,’ Davey said excitedly.’

  Suddenly Mason jumped to his feet. ‘Do you know what we have here? Do you know what the hell we have?’

  ‘A scary story,’ Betsy said, downing her drink. ‘A scary story for scary nights in a scary old castle in scary Slavonia.’

  ‘It’s a movie!’ he said. ‘It’s our movie! Just the movie Metropolitan Studios are looking for. It’s perfect. It has all the ingredients
they’re after, and what’s more it’s made for you and me, Betsy.’

  ‘You and me?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’ He sat back down, his hands working excitedly together. ‘Davey, I’ve seen your writing, you’re great. Betsy told me you had started to work on screenplays. How about you working on a screenplay for our movie?’

  ‘Our movie?’

  Dragutin’s Bride?’

  ‘I dunno…’

  ‘Think about it; if we can drop something almost fully formed in front of Conrad Jefferson and Hal Bremner at a time they’re looking for ideas they’ll most likely jump at the chance. Davey, it could make you as a writer.’ He looked up at Betsy. ‘And this could be the start of your career. I mean, you could be cast as Dorottya. Why not? Like me you’re cheap and an unknown.’

  ‘Cheap? Thanks for that, Rick. I think Metropolitan will have its own thoughts on the subject of casting, you know.’

  Undaunted, he turned to Davey. ‘Could you do it, work on an outline for a screenplay?’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose so…’ He said, frowning.

  Mason drained his glass, refilled it. ‘How soon can you begin?’

  Davey glanced at Betsy then turned back to Mason. ‘First thing tomorrow,’ he said, his lips breaking out into a smile that transformed his entire face. ‘We’ll go through the skeleton of a story first, then leave me to get together a first draft.’

  ‘Great!’ Mason said, sitting back. He raised a glass to the ceiling. ‘Thanks, pops; you might just come in useful!’

  The logs in the grate shifted and fiery devils of flame shot into the air.

  ‘I think he heard you,’ said Betsy.

  * * * *

  17

  A Step Too Far

  By the next day the land had turned white, and true to what Franz Horvat had said the road to and from Castle Dragutin was temporarily impassable. But that hadn’t dampened the enthusiasm of the night before. Even in the sober light of day, Rick Mason remained excited with his newfound storyline and talked animatedly over breakfast about all aspects of it. Betsy looked on bemused as Davey and Mason sat in the drawing room before the window, sketching out ideas on sheets of yellowed paper borrowed from Baron Dragutin’s office. She had not seen her brother so engrossed in something like this for so long. She thought she had lost the brother of old, but he was gradually coming back to her. Perhaps he was finally pushing what happened to him to the back of his mind. Perhaps he would forget that horrible, sick, corrupt man once and for all. Forget how he died.

  She grew bored and left the two men alone, deciding to wander the castle. She met Margit in one of the many corridors, but the old woman spoke very little English and Betsy no Hungarian, so they spent a good while grinning inanely at each other before parting company.

  As she walked she could not help but remember that fateful day, how her brother came running to her, dishevelled and distraught, his words barely comprehensible, his hands soaped with blood. She comforted him, washed the blood from his hands as he sobbed uncontrollably. All would be well, she told him. He was her brother and she would take care of him as he had always taken care of her. They had to get away, she said, because if he were caught they would send him to the electric chair. And so they ran. They had been running ever since.

  Most doors were locked or filled with sheet-covered furniture. She made her way up spiralling staircases and wandered floor upon floor of similar rooms, quiet and empty, as if the entire place were sleeping. Or patiently waiting.

  The higher she went the chillier and more oppressive it appeared to become, and at one point she was so enveloped by the cold that she was on the verge of abandoning her aimless ramble and going back downstairs to the warmth below. But the sight of massive double doors at the end of a carpeted corridor on the uppermost floor made her stop and want to investigate. There were bulbous circular handles in the centre of each door, one of which she grasped, her small hand dwarfed by it, and turned it expecting the door to be locked. She pushed at it and the door opened.

  The room was in darkness, as she’d come to expect. But she could immediately tell that this room was different from all the rest. It was very spacious, filled with lavish decoration, from the high painted ceiling dripping with plaster details, to the many paintings hanging from walls papered with richly patterned wallpaper. She noticed the room held a number of doors that beckoned her enticingly with the promise of further discoveries.

  Betsy drew open the drapes at a window. They hid a pair of long, many-paned double doors that led out onto a stone balcony. Beyond this she could see the lake and mountains. She guessed the balcony overlooked the cliffs of the neck of land on which Castle Dragutin stood. The one from which Dorottya had been pushed by the bandits? Could this be Dorottya’s room?

  She tried the door knob, but it was locked, so she went to every window and yanked back the drapes, the snow-white light flooding in and momentarily blinding her. It revealed long gilded sofas, cabinets, tables, Turkish-style rugs at her feet and a pair of matching chandeliers above her dripping beads of crystal, like frozen tears.

  It had a distinctly feminine feel to it all, she thought. Not half as austere or functional as the rest of the castle. She went around the room, opening cupboard doors and drawers and came across neatly folded clothes made from the finest silk, some edged with flourishes of beautiful lacework. The wardrobes contained lines of dresses and blouses on hangers, hat boxes stacked like so many bricks on shelves above them. There were rows of beautiful shoes, old-fashioned now but at one time the height of fashion. But the thing she noticed was how everything appeared to be unused, as pristine as the day they had been bought.

  Betsy took out a pair of shoes, took off her own and tried them on. They fitted perfectly. How strange, she thought. Lifting out a long coat she slipped her arms into the sleeves and was surprised to find that this fitted also. As if it had been made for her.

  ‘They belonged to Dorottya,’ said Mason from behind her.

  She started and put a hand to her chest. ‘Rick! You startled me!’ Then she laughed and began to take off the coat.

  ‘It suits you,’ he said. ‘It makes you look elegant. Margit told me I’d find you up here. Decided to go exploring?’

  ‘It’s all very beautiful, but it’s hardly been worn,’ she observed of the clothes. ‘Is this Dorottya’s room?’

  ‘That’s because she died before she could ever wear any of it. Yes, it is her room, or rooms, as there are a number that lead off from this. Horvat showed me this yesterday, that’s why it’s unlocked. I told him I didn’t like it being locked. Not after knowing what happened to her, poor woman.’’

  ‘Do you think she was forced into having a baby?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know. There’s something freaky about all this. About her being forced into marriage, being kept up here, in her room.’

  ‘Raped? That’s strong stuff, Betsy.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t like to think that I came into the world forced on my mother.’

  She shuddered. ‘I hate the thought, too…’

  ‘Hell, it’s a story, Betsy. This entire place is filled with them. The reality is probably so boring that’s why they had to invent things. Never mind all that. Come with me…’

  He led her through one of the doors into what had been Dorottya’s bedroom. The bed was a huge affair, the headboard padded with green silk and heavy with carved wooden details edged in gold paint. She was drawn immediately to an iron ring fastened hard into the wall beside the bed. She lifted it, studying the two-inch-diameter ring. ‘Whatever do you think this is?’ she asked.

  Mason wasn’t listening. He went instead to a white sheet that was covering something angular and he lifted it off. Under it was a painted portrait of a pretty woman.

  ‘That’s Dorottya?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, that’s my mother,’ he returned unemotionally.

  ‘She’s so beautiful,’ she said, moving closer to the oil paintin
g. ‘Yet she looks so tragic.’

  ‘Maybe that’s just hindsight, or the romantic in you.’

  ‘Your father was a monster. He took joy in killing, he tortured people and I reckon he made your mother a virtual prisoner and even possibly raped her.’

  He shrugged. ‘Not your average guy, I’ll grant you that. Who knows what’s true.’ He draped the cover back over the painting.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re not like him,’ Betsy said, linking her arm through his. ‘You must obviously take after your mother.’ Unexpectedly she sighed and said, ‘You know, you mustn’t lead Davey on so.’

  ‘What do you mean, lead him on? I wasn’t aware that I was.’

  ‘All this screenplay business. It might all come to nothing. I’m glad to see him smiling again, coming out of his shell a little, but please don’t make false promises. That could do more harm than good. The same with me, Rick. Metropolitan aren’t going to give me a second glance in any movie you’re doing for them. I’m a nobody. At least you’ve had a bite at the cherry and they can see the potential you’ve got. And you know as well as I do that even though the Baron Dragutin story is a good one they aren’t bound to take it on board.’

  He smiled at her. ‘Do you still love me?’ he asked.

  ‘Since yesterday? Sure I do. I’m not so fickle, you know.’

  ‘Even though I may not be the baron you thought I was, and penniless save for a dump of a castle I can’t do anything with?’

  ‘I don’t care about any of that. It’s you I love, not the phoney title. As for money, if things don’t work out at Metropolitan then I guess we’ll get by. People always do.’

  ‘And what if I told you that I wasn’t penniless and that I’d actually inherited a fortune?’

  ‘Then I’d either think you were pulling my leg or out of your head.’

  ‘I’m neither, Betsy. Straight up, I’ve inherited around two-million dollars. So to hell with this miserable old castle, it can rot for all I care. When we get back to the States it’s a taste of the high life for us!’