The House of the Wolf

by Basil Copper

  He had been there only a few minutes, tasting the coffee, his eyes occasionally catching those of the deferential servants who passed and repassed, or staring into the roseate flames of the fire with his mind agreeably blank of any specific thought, when there came the muffled sound of footsteps from the flagged corridor outside the room door.

  It was still only ten minutes to nine, and familiar faces were advancing down the length of the room toward him. His host was in the forefront, leading a party of Coleridge’s fellow delegates from the Congress, but there was no sign of the women for the moment. Coleridge made as though to rise from the table, but Homolky pressed him back.

  ‘You are early abroad, Professor, particularly after your late night and journeyings of yesterday. I trust my people have made you comfortable?’

  ‘Everything is admirable, Count.’

  Coleridge acknowledged the smiling greetings of the six other men as they ranged themselves round one end of the huge refectory table, their host dropping into a rudely carved wooden chair which had a boar’s-head motif engraved on its back.

  ‘The ladies are not joining us, then?’

  It was the black-bearded man nearest to Coleridge, reaching out for the silver-plated coffeepot. The servants were coming back en masse now, bearing the main breakfast.

  The Count shrugged. He wore a hunting jacket with deep-flapped pockets this morning, and a red silk handkerchief made a splash of scarlet as it peeped from his breast pocket.

  ‘Alas, no. They are taking breakfast in their rooms and begged to be excused.’

  Coleridge himself was wearing a thick tweed country suit, and as he leaned back in his chair and waited for the meal to be served he felt a good deal more comfortable and at his ease than yesterday.

  A young man with a clipped black moustache, who was sitting almost opposite Coleridge, caught the other’s eye and made a wry face. Coleridge, with one of his moments of deep penetration, could not resist a slightly waspish comment.

  ‘Delightful ladies, are they not?’

  The Count quietly watched the two men as he reached forward to raise the cover on one of the big dishes a servant-girl had placed in front of him. A familiar and agreeable aroma permeated the room.

  ‘Indeed,’ the dark-haired man mumbled.

  ‘Particularly Miss Homolky,’ put in George Parker, the black-bearded man sitting to Coleridge’s right.

  The Count dabbed fastidiously at his lips with a silk handkerchief as he put his coffee cup down.

  ‘You have made a conquest, Dr. Raglan,’ he told the young man smilingly.

  ‘My daughter was speaking of you only last evening, just before the professor’s arrival.’

  Raglan flushed and bent over his plate to hide his slight confusion. An awkward pause had ensued, and Coleridge, conscious that he had started the conversation on this tack, hastened to make amends.

  ‘What is the programme for today, gentlemen? I realise we have no official business, but I would be glad of a tour of the Castle and perhaps a walk in these agreeable surroundings. Unless the weather is too severe.’

  The Count pushed one of the dishes over toward his companions, the servants hovering in the background and looking slightly anxious to Coleridge’s eye.

  ‘Eggs and bacon, gentlemen,’ Homolky exclaimed with a short laugh. ‘A favourite with the English and the Americans also, is it not?’

  ‘You are too kind,’ Coleridge said.

  Truth to tell, he was exceedingly hungry this morning and he felt he could do justice to the breakfast before them. He took a slice of the coarse-looking brown bread and spread it with butter. It was warm – fresh-baked, in fact – and tasted delicious.

  The Count had taken up the thread of their earlier conversation.

  ‘No, I do not think the weather will be too severe if walking be your pleasure, Professor. Providing you are accompanied by one of the members of my family or my staff. It will not snow, if that is what you meant.’

  A sombre image had again floated back into Coleridge’s mind. He shook his head.

  ‘No, I did not mean that, Count. I was referring to the wolf.’

  There was a sudden silence round the table. Dr. Menlow, a tall, gaunt Englishman with sandy hair and a drooping moustache of the same colour, paused with the butter-knife halfway to his toast. The others stared at Coleridge uncomprehendingly. The latter was quick to sense the atmosphere, and he looked apologetically at his host.

  ‘I trust I have not inadvertently . . .’

  Homolky shook his head, his face serious beneath the shock of white hair.

  ‘No, no, Professor, it is quite in order. The affair is all over the village by now.’

  A dark shadow passed across his mobile features.

  ‘That is why the ladies have not joined us this morning. They are rather upset about the business. The man did a good deal of work for my estate. And, as you know, this is not the first time.’

  Coleridge nodded, aware of the puzzled expressions of his colleagues.

  ‘A man was killed by a wolf last night,’ he said. ‘I saw the body brought in as I was on my way here.’

  A visible shiver passed through the servants bustling about in the background, despite the warmth of the room. The effect Coleridge’s words had had on them was not lost on the Count.

  ‘Leaving aside superstitious nonsense,’ he said sharply, ‘I should be glad of your help, Professor. It is time a proper hunt is organised for the beast. I understand you are a superlative shot.’

  Coleridge shrugged, again feeling exposed and inadequate as the eyes of the other six men, who had fallen silent at his news, were turned upon him.

  ‘I would not say that, Count. But adequate, yes. I have hunted in my native mountains and in those of Europe. But not for what you call sport. Only from necessity.’

  The Count raised his eyebrows, but before he could reply, Professor Shaw put in sharply, ‘But superstition is surely why we are here, Count?’

  Coleridge was certain their host would have been annoyed at this, but he smiled thinly at the savant’s interruption.

  ‘An admirable observation, Professor. You are right, of course. But there is a difference between properly conducted scientific research into primitive superstition and the mindless acceptance of old wives’ tales, as I believe you call them.’

  He waved a heavily built man in steward’s uniform away from the table. He looked round the vast room, stilling the murmur. Keeping his penetrating eyes fixed upon the middle distance he continued, lowering his voice almost to a whisper so that the breakfasting company had to strain their ears.

  ‘These are very simple people, gentlemen. They are admirable in many ways. But they are like frightened children when something like this happens.’

  ‘But what has happened?’ put in George Parker with mild exasperation.

  Coleridge waited for his host to go on, but he remained silent, so the professor took up the story.

  ‘There is apparently a large black wolf which leads a marauding pack hereabouts. The wolf – or the members of the pack – has been responsible for the deaths of three people from the village. And the local inhabitants say there is something supernatural about the animal that leads the pack. They have continually fired at the creature but have been unable to hit it.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s because they’re such beastly bad shots,’ put in Dr. Raglan sotto voce, causing fleeting smiles to run round the table.

  To Coleridge’s surprise the Count shook his head.

  ‘I think there is a little more to it than that, Doctor.’

  He glanced about him again, making sure the nearest servants were out of earshot.

  ‘There is something strange. Not supernatural, in my opinion. But the beast which leads the pack is certainly c
unning and quite out of the ordinary.’

  He fixed the company with his piercing eyes.

  ‘I have never come across anything like it. And I am an experienced hunter, both here and in other parts of Europe.’

  ‘You have taken part in the hunts yourself, then,’ said Coleridge.

  The tall figure of their host was erect now, as though he were listening for something above the crackling of the fire.

  ‘Indeed. And there were some surprising incidents.’

  He held up his hand suddenly.

  ‘Though I would not wish this information to reach the ladies. They have been much troubled by this business already.’

  ‘I do hope all this will not interfere with the business for which we have gathered here,’ put in Dr. Abercrombie, a burly, bearded Scotsman who had not yet spoken.

  ‘You need have no fears on that account, Doctor,’ Homolky replied smoothly, his eyes sweeping round the company.

  The eighth man at table, who had been silent hitherto, was sitting diagonally across from Coleridge. He wore a suit of dark brown plus-fours, which made him look as though he had strolled off a Scottish grouse-moor, Coleridge thought.

  Middle-aged, and with a greying beard, he was a noted expert on vampirism and witchcraft. He had arrived late for the Congress, having been detained on medical consultations in Paris, but had promised to read some important papers containing original research during the ten-day programme the Count and his household staff had organised.

  Now he drummed with thick spatulate fingers on the immaculate white cloth before him, the steam from his coffee cup making little blurred images of his features as it rose past his face toward the ceiling. He stared thoughtfully across at Coleridge.

  ‘It has already been touched on, of course, but if there does turn out to be something odd about this creature, would it not be extremely interesting?’

  The Count had a momentary expression of annoyance on his face but disguised it as he again turned down to address himself to the heaped plate before him. Coleridge’s own bacon was getting cold, and he also resumed his interrupted meal, the others following suit.

  ‘I mean,’ Dr. Sullivan went on, almost dreamily. ‘This is the very stuff of our own studies. The observation of primitive superstition at close hand and under such circumstances would be absorbing, to say the least.’

  The words seemed to hang in the air far longer than one would have thought, Coleridge felt.

  Sullivan had just the faintest touch of malice in his smile as he glanced around the table.

  ‘Or is it the difference between comfortable scholarship in agreeable surroundings and the rigours of fieldwork which might turn out to be extremely dangerous?’

  The Count dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, his manner formal and correct.

  ‘We shall see, Dr. Sullivan,’ he said. ‘In the meantime the food is getting cold.’

  An uneasy silence fell over the table, which persisted until the end of the meal.

  CHAPTER 7: CONFIDENCES

  A low dispiriting mist lay over the landscape, cloaking the salient features, and through the darkness of the fir trees which made up much of the surrounding forest, individual trunks stood out blackly like the bars of a cage. That was the impression given to Coleridge as he stood, warm and well-fed, by the windows of a great reception room on an upper floor of the Castle, enjoying the after-breakfast solitude.

  His colleagues had dispersed to their rooms, and his host had gone to see his family regarding their plans for the day. The professor was momentarily alone, apart from the dumb majordomo who stood with his arms crossed at the far end of the room, ready to cater to the guest’s whim, but in reality looking as though he were on guard, Coleridge thought.

  He watched his own reflection in the pane, occasionally obliterated by the dancing gleams of the fire at the opposite side of the tapestry-hung chamber. The end of his cigar glowed an even red, and he relished its fragrant aroma.

  He was glad of the break. There was no noise here, though he could see massive wooden carts negotiating sharp bends that took the road past the Castle. He followed them idly with his eyes for a moment or two; they looked like more gypsy arrivals for the Fair his sledge-driver had spoken of. He hoped he would have an opportunity to visit the Fair during their stay. Coleridge enjoyed such gatherings with their crude vitality and gusto, and the gypsies, particularly the Eastern European variety with their vivid dances and wild stories, were the very essence of folklore.

  In his library at home Coleridge had upward of forty thick notebooks stuffed with the data he had amassed during his travels the length and breadth of Europe in recent years. But then his thoughts reverted to his host and his attractive family. Apart from the cloud cast by the death of the woodman yesterday, the visit promised to be a delightful break from the rigours of the Congress.

  The Count’s guests were hand-picked, though not all had been Coleridge’s first choices for this private gathering; all were English-speaking and generally congenial spirits. It was true that Coleridge did not know every one of them in person. Some he had met for the first time in the capital, others he had corresponded with.

  But they had impressed him favourably with their outward-looking ideas and the depth of their scholarship. Really, this visit to Castle Homolky should have been the highlight of the Hungarian trip. And yet . . .

  Coleridge broke off frowningly and turned away from the window, seeking the deep carved chair by the fire. The incident yesterday he had referred to, in his own mind, as a cloud. Yet it was more than that. The Count and his family were obviously troubled. And the guide and the priest, if he remembered correctly, had both spoken of a projected wolf-hunt. He had even agreed to take part himself.

  He bit his lip, knocking out the ash from his burning cigar on a massive wrought-iron firedog in the shape of a fiercely snarling wolf. He had not noticed it before and was somewhat startled for a moment; the unknown mediaeval craftsman had fashioned the likeness so skilfully as to give the image an expression of unbridled ferocity.

  Coleridge shifted his gaze over to the left-hand side of the fire, ignoring the impassive figure of the white-haired man in the military-style uniform who stood so patiently near the door. The image here was even more interesting: the wolf had something down between his forepaws and, with head lowered, was tearing at it. The effect was so unpleasant that Coleridge felt an involuntary shudder pass through him. Then he was himself again.

  He remembered that his guide had referred to the Castle as The House of the Wolf; that was curious in itself, and now here was the wolf-motif on the firedogs. If there were historical precedent, then the wolf-motif should logically appear in the Count’s coat of arms. He got up again and walked over closer to the fireplace. The heat was intense, but he forgot that as he looked up at the carved heraldic shield that occupied the central panel high in the gloom.

  It was difficult to make out at that distance, and the professor went back and resumed his chair and his disconnected musings. He had brought some notes for one of his principal papers down from his room, and now he took them out and spread them on his knee, running down the subheadings frowningly as he looked for errors and turned over half-formulated ideas.

  He stopped at last, glancing back to the first page with a sharp crackle of paper. He had passed an agreeable few minutes, the only sound being the musical chime of an ancient clock with metal and gilt figures which wheeled about with a faint noise of clockwork before beating out the quarter hours with tiny hammers.

  The thing was a quaint conceit but all of a piece with Castle Homolky and the antiquity of their host’s family, Coleridge thought. He frowned again at the paper’s heading, his cigar burning out unheeded in the fingers of his right hand. He stared at the title.

  ‘On Lycanthropy.’ It seemed a little austere even for
such a function as that on which they were engaged. If he knew George Parker, he would have chosen something much more colourful for his opening paper. Coleridge grunted.

  He leaned forward, searching in his breast pocket for his pen. He crossed out the heading, conscious of its dry inadequacy. He thought for a moment, his eyes half-closed. Then he rapidly scribbled in a substitution. ‘Some Aspects of the Werewolf Myth.’

  He smiled faintly at the conceit, as though he were proposing something greatly daring in such a title. The smile was still curving his lips when there came the click of a door in the silence and someone came out onto the carved wooden balcony which overhung the end of the room and stared down at him.

  After a moment or two Coleridge made out that it was the Count’s daughter, Nadia. She gave him a hesitant smile as she caught his eye and then moved over to the head of a small spiral staircase which led down to floor level. Coleridge got up and walked over to meet her. He heard another noise then and, turning, was just in time to see the majordomo disappearing through the far door. The girl had evidently given him some discreet signal, indicating that she wished to talk alone with her guest.

  Coleridge awaited the girl at the foot of the stairs with faint trepidation. Firstly, he often felt ill at ease with such young women; he had had some embarrassing experiences with his own students when lecturing in America. The modern young girl was inclined to be intense and romantic and often read subtle implications into Coleridge’s lectures which he had certainly never intended.

  He was no prig, and he smiled briefly as the thought swiftly chased itself across his mind. And he was certainly not too old for young women, though he preferred those of more mature years; the early thirties was a sensible age, he believed. Now as he waited, one hand on the carved wooden balustrade, listening to the clattering of the girl’s heavy boots on the treads above, he hoped she would not make him the recipient of some unwanted and unlooked-for confidence.