by Basil Copper
Coleridge was aware that subtle influences were gathering around him; from attending a highly enjoyable and relaxing private gathering of like-minded savants he might well find himself enmeshed in something far more complicated.
The thought was ridiculous on the surface, but the old adage about coming events and their shadows was much in Coleridge’s mind, though it did not show on his face as he gave Nadia Homolky a welcoming smile as she reached the foot of the spiral.
This morning she wore some sort of masculine hunting costume which showed her full figure to advantage. The effect was delightful, Coleridge thought, and was certainly practical in such a country and in such weather conditions as prevailed outside. She caught the approval in his eyes and smiled again, the mellow light of the overhead lamps making a shimmering mass of her shoulder-length hair.
‘I am glad to find you alone this morning, Professor,’ she said in her clear-minted English, every syllable precise and correct in a way in which native-born English-speakers never enunciate. There was nothing mechanical about it, but it proved to Coleridge that she had had the finest teachers who had not been satisfied until the slightest trace of an Eastern European accent had been eliminated. He guessed that her father had had a good deal to do with her schooling.
The two walked back toward the fireplace, a faint, elusive perfume Coleridge had noted the previous night emanating from the girl’s hair. He supposed it might have been the pomade or whatever it was that young ladies washed or dressed their hair with.
Coleridge had not ventured an answer to her first remark, and now the girl turned her head sideways to give him a penetrating look. He was beginning to find her close proximity a little overpowering, and he moved quickly away to the other side of the fireplace. Nadia Homolky appeared not to have noticed, but the savant was aware that this member of a remarkable family was just as percipient and quick-witted as the rest of them.
‘There was something I wished to discuss with you, Professor,’ she went on, hesitating and resting one slim hand on the back of the big carved chair near the fire. Coleridge waited politely for her to sit before he took the chair opposite, a small occasional table between them.
‘I am at your disposal, Miss Homolky,’ he said, turning his eyes from her face to the details of her costume.
She wore green velveteen breeches tucked into tan riding boots, and they gave her a masculine look that was offset by the decidedly feminine curves of the legs beneath the thick material. A belted corduroy jacket of the same colour circled her trim waist, and a dark brown shirt, open-necked at the fine pillars of her throat, was topped by a red silk scarf which was knotted carelessly, with the art that conceals art, and thrust into the bosom of the shirt where firm breasts swelled beneath the jacket.
Coleridge knew he had been wise to put the table between them; he was not normally an impressionable man, but he knew this girl could have a powerful effect on members of the opposite sex. He had already noted the attraction that she had for the good-looking and enthusiastic young Dr. Raglan.
She moistened her full lips and went on rapidly, keeping her eyes turned down to the polished parquet which dully reflected the dancing flames of the fire.
‘I believe you witnessed an ugly incident which had taken place a short while before you arrived at the Castle?’
Coleridge inclined his head.
‘That is so. Your father seemed rather upset and asked me not to mention it in front of the family.’
The girl made a little dismissive gesture with her right hand, raising her eyes to fix his own.
‘Father has already told us the broad details, Professor. You may speak quite freely with me.’
Coleridge felt faint surprise rising within him, but his manner was noncommittal.
‘I know very little about it, Miss Homolky. I merely saw the remains of this poor fellow being brought back, and I gathered the details from my guide, who spoke to the priest about it.’
The girl nodded, her eyes still on Coleridge’s face.
‘Father Balaz. Yes. He is a good friend and often dines here. I have a particular reason for asking you about the matter. The man who died worked for my father and had been a loyal companion to me during my childhood.’
Her voice trembled a little, but her gaze was steady as she continued to regard her guest.
‘We are very close-knit in these communities, Professor Coleridge, even though we may appear to be separated in station and style of life from the village people. My mother and grandmother were also very upset.’
She broke off and looked almost fiercely into the fire before resuming.
‘There have been many wild stories in circulation. I would be grateful if you could tell me what you saw and heard last night.’
Coleridge shrugged.
‘There is little enough to tell, Miss Homolky.’
He related the events of the previous evening, his eyes turned down toward the parquet where the flames of the fire were reflected. The girl sat with one hand on the arm of the carved chair, her small knuckles showing white where she clutched it. Coleridge told her everything he could remember, leaving out the bloodier detail to spare the girl’s feelings.
There was no sound in the vast apartment except for the faint noise of the fire, and when he at last finished the girl gave a low, vibrant sigh that startled Coleridge by the depth of sorrow in it. His surprise must have shown on his face, for the blonde girl flushed slightly and put up her hand to brush the hair from her eyes.
‘You are a stranger here, Professor,’ she said gently, ‘and can know little of childhood ties forged under the dark and tragic circumstances of such an unfortunate country as mine.’
Coleridge looked her full in the eyes.
‘I can assure you I do understand, my dear young lady,’ he answered softly. ‘I am sorry to be the one to bear such news which can only cause distress to those who knew the man.’
The girl was staring into the fire, as though she had not heard Coleridge’s last remark. She turned back to him again, her jaw set.
‘What do you think about this wolf, Professor? You are an expert on folklore, like Dr. Raglan and your colleagues here.’
‘I?’
The surprise in Coleridge’s voice was unconcealed.
‘What can I say, Miss Homolky? There are many wild superstitions abounding in such lonely and mountainous communities as you have here. I have written much about them, as you know.’
The girl shook her head impatiently.
‘I did not mean that, Professor. Even the soldiers say there is something weird about this wolf – that he is impossible to shoot, possessed of almost supernatural cunning, and so forth.’
Coleridge shook his head.
‘The wolf is a very courageous, enterprising, and cunning animal. It is hardly surprising that a pack-leader such as I have heard described should have gained such a reputation. But I would be extremely doubtful whether the same animal had killed three times. Normally they kill other animals only for food or when cornered.’
The girl’s face now was white.
‘Exactly, Professor. That is what is so strange about it. Dr. Raglan too was sceptical when he came here. But now he agrees with me.’
Coleridge smiled at the girl, conscious of the warm flush spreading across her cheeks.
‘Dr. Raglan is a very clever and highly-thought-of young man in his profession, Miss Homolky. If you will forgive me for saying so, you make a handsome pair. And it is hardly surprising that he would agree with someone so delightful as yourself . . .’
He broke off, conscious that the girl was smiling too. She shook her head violently as though in disagreement, but the smile grew.
‘I take your point, Professor, but I did not mean that, I can assure you.’
She becam
e more serious after a moment or two, glancing around as though uneasy that they might be overheard.
‘There was something else you wished to tell me, wasn’t there?’ Coleridge went on, trying to put his companion at ease. He sensed all sorts of questions in her eyes.
She bit her lip and turned away from him, her gaze again seeking the flames, as though she could see things there that were hidden from him. The dancing reflections of the firelight glanced on the iron eye-sockets of the two heraldic wolves on the firedogs, making them momentarily alive.
‘There was something, Professor,’ she continued after a moment. ‘But it is almost too fantastic for belief.’
Coleridge felt a quick stirring of interest.
‘Is it something to do with this house? Or the subject of our Congress?’
The girl sat stiffly now, her face turned away, all her concentration seemingly on the molten mass at the heart of the fire.
‘The locals call this The House of the Wolf,’ Coleridge went on. ‘It seemed a strange conceit to me until I saw the heraldic devices in this room.’
The girl was facing him again. Her eyes were troubled, and her breasts rose and fell with her agitated breathing beneath the open-necked shirt.
‘Yes, it is to do with this house, Professor. And with the Congress, if you like.’
She got up and came forward impulsively to put her hand on the savant’s arm.
‘What would you say, Professor, if I told you something that seems utterly, wildly impossible?’
Coleridge’s smile died on his lips as he looked into Nadia Homolky’s agitated features.
‘I should probably say there was some logical explanation and that you should not distress yourself.’
The grip of the girl’s hand tightened on Coleridge’s sleeve.
‘Late last night, Professor, I was reading in my room. Someone tried the door-handle. I saw it move as clearly as I see you now. It turned several times, and then the door itself was violently shaken.’
She bit her lip again, her eyes haunted by the recollection of something her listener was unable to fathom.
‘I am rather nervous, and this Castle has a strange atmosphere at night. I called out, and the noise stopped. I got out of bed and went over to the door and was actually going to open it . . .’ She broke off, pulling her hand violently away from Coleridge’s restraining grip. Her eyes were wild and her face ashen now.
‘Professor, I am as certain in my mind as I am that we are here that as I put my hand on the key I heard the snarling of a wolf not a foot from where I was standing, and the click of a wild animal’s paws on the floor of the corridor!’
CHAPTER 8: THE THING IN THE CORRIDOR
‘You astonish me!’
Coleridge’s bewilderment and momentary inadequacy were all too palpable on his face. The girl’s features had a little more colour, but her expression was still grim as she stared at her companion.
‘I intended to, Professor. Can you imagine my situation, late at night and to all purposes alone and undefended? I cried out, and then I heard the thing running down the corridor outside. After that I must have fainted because I awoke on the floor of my room deathly cold and found by my bedside clock that almost an hour had passed.’
The girl came closer again, looking at her companion with a mixture of terror and apprehension.
‘You do believe me, Professor? I can assure you of my sanity.’
Coleridge took the small, chill hand she held out and rose from his seat.
‘I believe you, Miss Homolky. But there must be some logical explanation. Could a wild beast have gained access to the Castle? I noticed earlier today that there is a break in the ancient perimeter wall where it gives on to the open countryside. You can see it from the window here.’
He led her toward it, more with the hope of distracting her from her distressing memories than of providing a rational explanation of what she had told him. She followed his pointing finger downward through the misty air.
‘It is possible,’ she said slowly. ‘But not likely. How would such an animal have got through all the locked and closed doors between the inner courtyard and my room? Besides, you are forgetting that the thing tried the door-handle.’
There was a trace of hysteria in her tones, and Coleridge ushered her swiftly to a great side-buffet where bottles and glasses glittered. He poured her a small glass of the local spirit, her teeth catching on the rim of the crystal. When she was calmer, the colour fully restored to her cheeks, Coleridge led her back to the fire.
‘You have not told your family of this?’
Nadia Homolky shook her head vigorously.
‘It did not seem appropriate. They have many worries, you see. I do not wish them to know.’
Coleridge ventured another approach.
‘Is it not possible that a servant first tried your door and, being unable to gain entrance, went on down the corridor? And then this beast passed along a few moments later.’
The girl’s burning eyes were holding Coleridge’s own.
‘Possible, but not likely, Professor. I know what I heard.’
She gulped at the raw spirit again.
‘And no-one else saw or heard this creature? It was not mentioned at breakfast.’
The girl put her small hands together round the rim of her glass. Again she looked very vulnerable and frail at that moment.
‘That was one of the reasons I decided to say nothing.’
Coleridge read her glance correctly.
‘And you would like me to investigate this incident for you? As discreetly and quietly as possible.’
The girl was smiling again now. For a moment Coleridge almost wished he were Dr. Raglan.
‘If only you would, Professor. I would be tremendously grateful. You are such an authority. And if anyone can assign a mundane explanation for this weird happening, it would be you.’
Coleridge put his hands together in his lap and frowningly examined his nails.
‘You flatter me,’ he said.
And after a moment of sombre silence between them: ‘Why do you keep your bedroom door locked?’
Nadia Homolky shrugged, her fingers still firm round the glass.
‘I am happy here. This is my home. But the Castle is a strange and gloomy place at night, as I have said. Since I have been an adult my parents have encouraged us to lock our doors at night.’
Coleridge raised his eyebrows.
‘Us?’
‘I am referring to the family and the household staff, Professor. Those that sleep within the Castle itself, in the residential wing here. It seems a reasonable thing to do. If you have lived in this country . . . It is remote and savage, as you have seen. And we have wild animals that are unknown in places like France and England.’
‘You have made your point,’ Coleridge conceded. ‘But it could be awkward if someone were taken ill and unable to summon help.’
The girl raised her glass to her lips.
‘Father holds master keys in case of emergencies,’ she said.
She again smiled briefly.
‘You are not suggesting that one of these superintelligent wolves is clever enough to use one of the master keys to gain access to the Castle?’
Coleridge was constrained to smile too.
‘I hardly think so, Miss Homolky. But let us just take a look at this room of yours, and perhaps I may be able to set your mind at rest.’
The girl led the way back up the curved staircase so swiftly that Coleridge was hard put to it to keep pace with her. Their footsteps echoed from the beamed ceiling and seemed to stir reverberations that hung in the air long after they should have dispersed, or so the guest felt as he hurried in the girl’s wake.
He paused as she turne
d to a small octagonal table in a dark corner and picked up a silver-banded oil lamp which had already been lit.
‘It is so dark in some of the corridors we are reduced to this,’ she said. ‘I have been pestering Father for a long while to extend the electric lighting to our bedrooms, but he prefers to augment his income by diverting it all to the guests and staff of The Golden Crown.’
Coleridge thought it politic to say nothing and wrenched his features into a blank expression. Nadia Homolky saw through him immediately and seemed amused. She turned up the wick of the lamp, throwing a golden glow onto the ancient panelling and the sombre-visaged oil portraits that hung in gilt frames on the balcony on which they found themselves, and opened a small, low door set into a stone buttress.
Coleridge was amazed at the proportions of the wall, which made a short corridor to a connecting door. It must have been almost eight feet thick and aroused his antiquarian interest, as this sort of thickness was usually reserved for outside defence.
He glanced at his silver-cased watch as the girl opened the far door. It was still short of eleven o’clock in the morning, but it might have been midnight for all the light that penetrated here.
The girl led him down another very short stair with beautifully carved balusters. Coleridge perceived that this was modern work and guessed it might be one of his host’s own improvements, for private use by the family. So it proved a few moments later, for Coleridge realised with faint surprise that he was again back in the corridor leading to his bedroom and down which he had walked to the main staircase on his way to breakfast.
The girl put the lamp upon a table they passed and left it burning. They were at the main stairhead now, and she ushered the professor up another staircase to the right which evidently led to the private apartments of the family, for here were more intimate touches: flowers carefully arranged in pale blue porcelain vases on occasional tables and the bright light of the snow shining through great vaulted windows at their left, which had gaily coloured scenes of some ancient battle with knights in armour, all carried out in stained glass of particularly rich shades of green, gold, and red.