by Basil Copper
‘I hope you are not disappointed, sir?’
Homolky shook his head, clasping the younger man’s hand in a warm, dry grip. He wore evening clothes as though he had just risen from table, and now that they were closer Coleridge could see that his face, though one of great distinction, was much ravaged. There was, it was true, a certain hard-bitten quality about it as though he spent much of his time out of doors in icy weather, but there was also something beyond that; some secret sorrow which lurked in the corners of his eyes and eroded him from within so that Coleridge almost felt he could see the living bone beneath the tightly stretched flesh.
‘I fear my tardy arrival has kept you from your bed.’
Homolky shook his head.
‘Not at all. My family and I keep late hours here.’
He smiled thinly, revealing perfectly kept, even teeth, which came to sharp points.
‘My house is yours, but I gather you would not require any further refreshment tonight. I trust The Golden Crown lived up to its reputation?’
Coleridge smiled also.
‘I could not eat another thing, sir. I hope I may repay your generosity there at some future time.’
Homolky shifted uneasily, his head on one side as though listening for something in the far corridors of the vast Castle.
‘Perhaps, Professor, perhaps.’
He rubbed his hands together and became brisk, as if remembering his duties as host.
‘You will be reunited with your six colleagues in the morning. They ask to be excused and have already retired.’
Coleridge glanced over at the big clock in the corner which, as though prompted by his look, commenced to chime the hour of midnight.
‘You had a good journey, I trust?’
The professor shrugged, dropping back into his chair at the Count’s insistence. His host went to stand in front of the fire, twisting his thin hands behind his back as he spread them to the blaze.
‘A trifle uncomfortable at this time of the year.’
Coleridge hesitated, then plunged on. After all, the Count would hear of it in the morning if news of the incident had not already percolated within the walls of the Castle.
‘There was some trouble in the woods near the village. I understood from my driver that marauding wolves have been seen. A villager was killed. A woodman, I believe.’
Homolky’s face became white, and he controlled himself with an effort. Slowly he turned from the fire to confront his guest directly.
‘The devil, you say, Professor!’
Coleridge got up from his chair.
‘I am sorry to bring bad news. It is not the first death, I believe.’
The Count put his lips together in a grim expression.
‘No, it is not the first time, Professor Coleridge. And curiously, it constitutes the material of the purest folklore. Ironic, is it not, when it is the very subject which has brought us all together here.’
Coleridge nodded, setting his empty goblet down on the table. He felt a sudden weariness permeating his limbs. The Count, who had brilliantly penetrating eyes, evidently noticed this, for he laid a sympathetic hand on the other’s arm.
‘Not a word of this tonight to my family, Professor. We have had trouble enough, and one is able to face things more resolutely in the daylight.’
He led the way across to the door through which he had come in.
‘They have been eagerly awaiting your arrival, and there is just time to greet them before retiring.’
‘We have waited long for this moment, Professor!’
The tall, dignified woman who rose from a carved chair at the end of the vast library gave Coleridge a smile of great nobility.
The visitor felt a faint flush of embarrassment as he came down the room with its serried ranks of books lining the shadowy walls. It was something he was learning to control; a feeling which had come back to him again at the Congress just past. One would have thought that he would have become used to such recognition at the age of forty-six.
But it was always the same at the opening of a function, or, as now, when meeting new people who knew his standing in the field in which he had gained his reputation. It would disappear within a short while, but in the meantime it was vaguely disconcerting.
His host, at his side, gave a faint smile as though he had glimpsed something of the guest’s thoughts.
‘My mother, the Countess Irina,’ he said, sotto voce. ‘Though almost eighty she is a remarkable old lady. I fancy you will find her well-versed in your works.’
He put his hand on the other’s arm and steered him round a huge circular walnut table whose surface was littered with books.
‘You are among friends, Professor.’
Coleridge felt reassured.
‘That is good to know,’ he said.
As they moved closer to the carved wooden fireplace where a heaped fire of logs blazed, throwing dancing shadows across the spines of the books and the sheen of the furniture, he made out the figures of two much younger women who stood either side of the mantelpiece; like two carved nymphs supporting the structure, they appeared stately and still in their evening dress until they stepped forward to add their greetings to those of the elderly lady.
The Count made the formal introductions in English, and it was obvious all three women were fluent not only in that language but in others, because they occasionally dropped into French and German among themselves as the conversation proceeded. Coleridge bowed low over the hand the Countess extended to him, conscious of a remarkable countenance and a pair of grey eyes of piercing sharpness which were turned upon him.
The other two women were both elegant and beautiful, and the Count introduced them as his wife and daughter. Coleridge did not properly catch the names during the sudden buzz of conversation. If the ladies were tired, they did not show it; Coleridge had rarely seen such animation and comeliness in the opposite sex, and it was equally clear that the Count’s mother had herself been a notable beauty in her youth.
They led the professor to a place of honour in another carved chair near the fire and sat about him on cushions and stools as though he were the head of some regal court. It was obvious that the Count’s wife was a great deal younger than he; she could not have been more than thirty-eight or forty, and her dark, clear-moulded beauty would have stood out in any company.
Her daughter was about eighteen, slim and tall like her parents, but with hair of a subtle blonde texture that shimmered and gleamed in the firelight as it fell in long, careless waves across her shoulders. Coleridge had only a few moments to take in the general aspects of these remarkable-looking women before they were plying him with questions, as though he were some university lecturer and they the students.
‘I am au fait with your latest work, The Essence of Lycanthropy, Professor,’ said the Countess Irina in a low, well-modulated voice which, like her son’s, had little trace of an accent. ‘I should place it within the canon of your most important works; among the top three of your most significant books to date.’
Coleridge was astonished. The book had been published in America only the month before, and he would not have thought the English language version could have penetrated into this far outpost of Europe.
‘You are too kind,’ Coleridge murmured, aware of the eyes of the other two ladies upon him. The granddaughter had caught his expression, for she said with good-natured irony, ‘We have excellent bookshops in Pest, Professor. The city is noted for its culture and learning.’
Coleridge smiled easily. He felt more relaxed now.
‘I am well aware of that,’ he conceded.
His host was smiling too.
‘We hope you will enlarge upon your theories at our gatherings here,’ he said. ‘There will be a free day tomorrow, as you must be
tired after your journey. But we have a full programme from Saturday onward. The library and all the facilities of the Castle are open to you. And your colleagues’ own papers promise some verbal fireworks!’
His eyes sparkled with a mischief which was very far removed from malice, and Coleridge smiled round the circle. He did not make friends very easily, but he was beginning to feel at home here already.
The Countess Irina, now that he had more time to study her, seemed even more striking close up than she had from a distance. Despite her great age her hair was only slightly powdered with grey, leaving raven strands at the sides of her head and at the temple. The hair was drawn back and secured with a silver comb, no doubt in order to fully reveal the fine bone structure of her face.
She wore a light coating of powder over features which were surprisingly free from wrinkles, and her grey eyes were now so dark that they appeared almost jet-black. Her teeth were finely kept when she smiled and appeared to be entirely natural; her lips were still full and rosy, though Coleridge imagined their texture was maintained with the skilful use of makeup.
She wore a heavy dress of some thick material, with a high-fitting collar to hide her wrinkled throat and sleeves descending to her wrists. From the right hand a handkerchief of fine lace showed as she moved her long, slender hands restlessly in her lap.
Apart from the silver comb she wore little jewellery, merely a single row of pearls which hung loosely over the bosom and two antique silver rings set with diamonds on her left hand. Altogether she made a remarkable impression on the visitor with her general vivacity and the vitality reflected in her voice and gestures.
Countess Sylva, her daughter-in-law, was of an entirely different mould, the professor judged. She was dark, like the older Countess, but there the resemblance ended. With her rosy cheeks that owed little to makeup, smooth broad brow, and deep, almost cobalt eyes, she would have passed muster in any salon of Paris or Vienna. She too had very little accent in her English, but from the way she spoke French he guessed she might well be a native of that country.
She was dressed simply but with great elegance, and her body moved with slow, voluptuous undulations beneath the heavy evening gown. The ladies’ clothing was obviously adapted to the rigours of the climate here; bare necks and shoulders would have invited pneumonia in some of the draughtier stone corridors Coleridge had traversed with his host on the way to the library.
The daughter, Nadia, was equally as attractive as the mother but, again, in an entirely different way. She wore a dress that was cut in a younger style, and beneath the long blonde hair that streamed across her shoulders her brown eyes were clear and candid. Her mouth was broad and generously made, and like the other two female members of her family she had extremely fine teeth, though they looked a little sharp and predatory whenever she opened her mouth wide.
Now she got up from her stool, as though conscious of her guest’s meditations.
‘You must be tired, Professor. And we are thoughtless in keeping you up so late after such a long and exhausting journey.’
Coleridge got up too, again aware that he was very tired, now that the girl had spoken of it.
‘The end of the journey was worth the rigours of its attainment,’ he said gallantly.
The mother raised her eyebrows.
‘An old Hungarian proverb?’ she queried.
Coleridge smiled, conscious of his host’s approval.
‘An old American one,’ he said, ‘but equally applicable here.’
The Count joined in the laughter, rising quickly and guiding the group over toward the door.
‘You are perfectly correct, my dear, nevertheless,’ he told his daughter. ‘Say goodnight, and I will show our guest to his room.’
Coleridge stood by the door to the corridor, shaking each of the ladies’ hands in turn as they took their leave. He was left with an impression of beauty, animal warmth, and a faint, elusive perfume hanging in the air after they had gone. The Count had obviously noted his guest’s favourable impression, but with consummate tact he ignored it and led the way along a broad corridor hung with tapestries and lined at intervals with heavily carved, somewhat primitive, occasional furniture.
There was no electric lighting here, and the silver lamp Homolky carried cast great fleeting shadows over the huge hammer beams above their heads. He smiled as he caught Coleridge’s expression.
‘We have our own electricity-generating installation here, Mr. Coleridge. The first in Lugos. It does not run to the entire Castle, it is so vast, you see. So I illuminate only the principal apartments.’
He smiled again.
‘Those that I wish to impress my guests.’
Coleridge felt a rapport with this man already; he had a gift of putting the visitor at his ease.
‘And you run the surplus to The Golden Crown,’ he said.
The Count looked at him shrewdly from beneath the shock of white hair.
‘You are most perceptive, Mr. Coleridge. I have a commercial arrangement with Herr Eles. And I and my family use the hotel a great deal. It seemed mutually advantageous.’
He glanced around him as the two men came out upon an elaborate stairhead where intricately carved balustrades curved both up and downward in the flickering gloom.
‘And as you can imagine, Mr. Coleridge, I have many expenses here. The world is changing. Too quickly, perhaps. And so one must move with the times.’
‘You seem to have the best of both worlds,’ Coleridge ventured.
The tall man shrugged, the golden lamplight dancing over his saturnine face.
‘I am a survivor, Mr. Coleridge. One has to be in a place like Eastern Europe. But you would not know that, coming from such a prosperous and enlightened place as the United States.’
Coleridge gave him a wry smile.
‘We also have our problems,’ he told his host politely.
Count Homolky had paused now, and he flung open the thick oak door in front of them to reveal a distinctive but comfortable chamber in which nothing had been spared for the guest’s needs. A blazing fire burned in the stone hearth; the panelled walls shone with wax polish; there were thick rugs on the parquet floor; and the yellow light from silver-based lamps set about on tables and the mantel shone on the carved bed, the thick tapestry curtains, and the decanter and glasses set out at the bedside table.
The Count made a subtle gesture with his shoulder, indicating another pool of yellow light farther down the corridor.
‘The bathroom is just along the passage, Professor. Lights burn there all night.’
He gave the guest his hand to shake in a grave, formal manner. Coleridge saw that his luggage was arranged neatly at the foot of the bed. He had carried his briefcase up with him, and now he transferred it to his left hand as he said goodnight to the Count.
‘I will leave you to unpack. Breakfast is at half-past eight, and if you ring the bell one of my staff will escort you down.’
Coleridge went on into the room, closing the door behind him, listening to his host’s footsteps dying out along the corridor. He went to the window and drew back the thick drapery. The light of the moon and the reflections from the snow created a fairy-tale illustration of Lugos; and the tangled turrets, walls, and cupolas spread out below Coleridge to the courtyards made his iced-cake simile more valid than ever.
He stared over toward the dark fir forests on the horizon, clear-cut in the brilliant light of the moon. Was it his imagination or had there come a faint, insistent howling that hung briefly in the icy air before being dissipated by the wind?
A vivid impression of the mangled thing on the stretcher came unbidden and unwanted into Coleridge’s mind. He shivered suddenly, drew the thick curtain against the night, and stepped back into the warmth of the room.
CHAPTER 6: FICTION OR FACT?
Coleridge was woken from a dreamless sleep the following morning by a soft-footed manservant who brought hot water and towels. After he had washed and dressed he pressed the bell, which brought the dumb majordomo to his room. It was just half-past eight and still pitch-dark when he descended to breakfast.
The meal was served in a vast chamber warmed by a roaring fire and whose pine-panelled walls were burdened with barbaric relics of the chase: boars’ heads with glaring eyes, deer with vast spreads of antler, and even the heads of wolves, whose tarnished plaques proclaimed that they had been slain in the eighteenth century.
Coleridge was the first at table, and so he had time to study his surroundings while girls in traditional peasant costume bustled about, first bringing scalding hot coffee in a silver pot before the main breakfast which would presumably be served when the host and the rest of the guests arrived.
Coleridge inferred that the room had once been the Castle armoury in ancient times. Apart from its huge size, it had a flagged floor made up of gigantic slabs of stone which were now wax-polished and covered with occasional rugs of what looked like bear-skin, and there were racks of weapons at ground-level with shields and other lethal-looking implements, including axes and pikes, spread out in artistic patterns on the walls.
They were high up here, and though there would have been a magnificent view down to the rest of the Castle and the village in broad daylight, the enormous windows that broke the massive stone walls at the professor’s back were still covered by thick tapestry curtains, no doubt in order to keep out the draught.
Despite all the evidence of the rude arts of the mediaeval huntsman spread about him, the room was not without comfort, and Coleridge revelled in the rich taste of the coffee, agreeably aromatic on the tongue; the snow-white linen of the tablecloth; the glinting silver at each placing; and the gratifying warmth that the stone fireplace threw out from the opposite wall.