by Basil Copper
Inwardly he was pleased at the interruption because he had no wish to draw undue attention to himself and the girl. Already people must be wondering what they had found so much in common, and though Raglan’s addresses had been diverted by the girl’s parents, Coleridge had no desire to give the young man further cause for jealousy.
Therefore, he was content to drop behind a little, leaving the girl and the burly savant to keep up an animated, bantering conversation in which Abercrombie courteously tried to involve him from time to time. They were almost opposite a part of the village where several side-streets debouched into the main thoroughfare, and Coleridge became aware of the low sound of voices, faint chanting, and the shuffling of many boots.
The two in front had also heard it, and they halted, watching as the pale flare of lanterns and a long file of black-clad people entered the main street from the lane opposite. Coleridge could make out the green onion dome of a large church, faintly visible against the darkening sky. He had not noticed it the previous evening because it had been completely dark when he reached Lugos and he had been facing away from the structure when they had passed on their way to the Fair earlier that afternoon.
People were standing on the heaped snow of the pavements now; half the population of Lugos seemed to have suddenly appeared. A group of black-clad mourners were sobbing brokenly as they followed the draped coffin resting on a farm cart drawn by three black horses. A man standing bare-headed near Coleridge crossed himself and said something in a guttural undertone.
The girl caught the question in Coleridge’s eyes.
‘The man killed by the wolf,’ she said in a low voice. ‘They are taking the body to lie in state in the church. The funeral will be on Monday. Father and all our family will be there, of course.’
Coleridge nodded, his mind pervaded by melancholy. He caught a glimpse of Father Balaz now, comforting the bereaved. He must have slipped away from the Castle soon after lunch. Naturally, it would not have been seemly for him to have accompanied the party to the Fair.
‘They appear in rather a hurry,’ he said, sotto voce, to Abercrombie.
The big man had been staring at the peasant who stood the other side of Coleridge, and the latter realised his colleague either spoke the language or at least understood it well enough to make out what the man had been saying.
‘They are a very superstitious people hereabouts,’ Abercrombie said. ‘The old man there, for instance. He was just remarking to his neighbour that people who die by the bite of the wolf are best underground as quickly as possible.’
He smiled wolfishly himself as though at some cruel joke.
‘We are in the very heart of folklore here, Professor! I must put that in my notebook.’
And he promptly took out a wine-coloured leather-bound volume from a capacious side-pocket and laboriously jotted down something in it under the light of the nearest streetlamp. Coleridge watched the procession tail off toward the distant church until the lanterns were nothing but faint pricks of light in the darkness.
It seemed to him that ever since he had set foot in Lugos, less than twenty-four hours ago, everything had been split into segments of light and shade – the former representing the happier interludes at the inn, at breakfast, and lunch; with darkness represented by the processions centring on the dead man who had just passed him for the second time, the gypsies with their barbaric magnificence, Rakosi and his unsuccessful cavalrymen, the wolf and Colonel Anton, the girl with her weird tale. Even Father Balaz seemed like some bird of ill-omen.
A splendour of epaulettes and befrogged greatcoat grew before his eyes, and here was Rakosi himself, saluting in the lamplight and bowing enthusiastically over the girl’s hand. He shook hands with Abercrombie and Coleridge too and then drew the girl over beneath the lamp.
Coleridge was turning away when he became aware that the tall, gaunt figure of Menlow was elbowing its way through the crowd of people which now blocked the street. His face looked worried, and he beckoned Coleridge into the shadowy dusk, out of range of the lamp.
‘You have done the test?’
Menlow shook his head.
‘That is what I wanted to tell you, Professor. I cannot find my microscope or my case of instruments anywhere.’
CHAPTER 14: THE BEAST MUST DIE
‘This beast must be killed!’
The Count’s voice was dangerously mild, but his eyes guttered with anger. Colonel Anton shrugged his big shoulders, his heavy-lidded eyes regarding his host through clouds of Turkish tobacco-smoke.
Captain Rakosi brushed an imaginary speck of lint off the front of his immaculate uniform and put his hands forward to the blazing logs of the fire.
‘That is easier said than done, Count.’
Coleridge leaned back in his leather easy-chair, keeping his mind blank, his glass of whisky half-drunk. It was completely dark outside now, had been for a long time, but close to the windowpane opposite, where the curtain was not quite drawn, flakes of snow whirled at the glass.
The fall would not be heavy, the Count had said; it was snowing in the wind, as Coleridge would have termed it. It was too cold to snow heavily, but the point was an important one because the Count soon hoped to find time to mount a determined hunt for the wolf.
It was annoying, to say the least, because the lectures were due to begin tomorrow, though Coleridge recognised that the affair was too urgent to Lugos to put off any further. The beast responsible for several deaths and one wounding must be put paid to if local people were to venture abroad safely or sleep easily in their beds.
In some ways, though, the day following – Sunday – would be more convenient. It would be observed by his colleagues as a normal rest day as in their own country, and the debates and lectures were not due to resume until the Monday.
Personally, Coleridge would not mind if it snowed heavily tomorrow, which would be a good excuse to continue with their planned programme and not set off on what might amount to an abortive pursuit of an animal which was dangerous, elusive, and cunning. Assuming that it was one beast they were dealing with, and not several.
But he had promised to accompany the Count and his party, and in all courtesy he could not very well back out. Coleridge ignored the talk of the three men at the fire and let his gaze wander at length over the vast expanse of shelving in the extraordinary library chamber which the Count had designated as their lecture room on the morrow.
It was different from the smaller library in which he had been received the previous night and was situated in another wing of the Castle. Coleridge realised it would not be too difficult to get lost in such a vast and rambling pile. When the opportunity presented itself he would get the girl to draw him a simple diagram, giving the disposition of the principal rooms and corridors. It might be vital if he were to assist her in the bizarre affair in which he was becoming involved.
His mind skirted Menlow’s problem; he had asked him to consult the Count on the matter of the missing cases. He hoped against hope that they had simply been mislaid by the servants. If not, it put an entirely different construction on the girl’s experience.
Abercrombie, sitting opposite, gave Coleridge a warm smile, puffing out clouds of rich smoke from his cigar, which ascended in slow blue whorls to the beamed ceiling high above. Everyone else had gone to their rooms to prepare for dinner, but the big Scot had expressed a desire to Coleridge and the Count to see the preparations which had been made for their debates. He was a formidable figure, and Coleridge felt an affinity for him, though they had known one another for only a few hours. He would be a useful man in a tight corner; it might be as well to remember that.
The professor shrugged off the thought irritably; he was becoming as highly strung as Nadia Homolky. It had a lot to do with the atmosphere of the Castle, the bitter weather outside, and the long miles of wolf-infes
ted wilderness that lay between Lugos and the city.
He glanced over toward the dais which the Count had had erected by his estate servants at the other end of the library. There were comfortable leather chairs arranged in rows, books and documents set out on tables, the various charts that would be needed for the lectures, rare illustrations culled from choice holdings in the Count’s extensive library collection, and a large blackboard with chalks and a pointer.
He had forgotten nothing, even down to the water-carafes ranged at intervals and which would be rewashed and filled with fresh water in the morning; cups, saucers, and coffeepots on a side-table; and an impressive array of wines and spirits on a buffet set against the wall between two of the glass bookcases.
The arrangements were indeed comprehensive, not to say magnificent, and in normal circumstances Coleridge would have been delighted. But now . . . He looked at his silver-cased watch. In another half-hour it would be dinnertime. Despite the lavishness of the lunch, the walk in the snow, the time spent at the Fair, and the long uphill trudge back had restored his appetite.
‘What do you think, Professor?’
Coleridge blinked fully awake. He tried to look as though he had been closely following the conversation, knew that he had failed. Anton had a slightly amused expression on his massive features.
‘We were just saying,’ the Count explained patiently, ‘that in view of the weather it might be better to postpone the hunt until Sunday.’
He shrugged.
‘Unless you have any objection. And as the first sessions, even of such a small Congress as ours, are all important, it would seem to suit everyone better.’
Coleridge nodded, his eyes still on the dancing flames of the fire.
‘That is settled, then,’ said Homolky decisively.
Rakosi went to stand with his heavy leather-clad feet astride, near the fireplace, looking searchingly at each of the four other men in the room.
‘I will get my officers to organise a party of villagers. We shall need a good deal of help to flush out this beast. But I shall recognise him again, if we meet, have no doubt of that.’
He slapped his braided uniform trouser-leg with a sharp crack that boded ill for the animal, and Coleridge saw a faint smile curve the corners of the Count’s mouth. But he got up politely to replenish his guests’ glasses.
‘You will stay to dinner, of course, gentlemen.’
His eyes flickered across to Coleridge.
‘And then the professor and I must have a little talk.’
He waved his unoccupied hand expansively to encompass the vast, silent library.
‘We have much to arrange before the morning.’
He was interrupted by a sudden knock at the door, and the gigantic bearded servant entered and exchanged a few quick, harsh words with his master. He went out swiftly, closing the door behind him. The Count rubbed his hands briskly.
‘Excellent!’
He handed Coleridge his refilled glass.
‘That was a message about your colleague, Dr. Menlow. I am glad to say his instrument cases have been found. They were put in one of the spare bedrooms by mistake.’
Coleridge paused by the half-open door of the Weapons Hall. It was, in fact, one of the museumlike rooms in which the Count kept exhibits related to his family history. Coleridge had noted it in an earlier tour of the Castle his host had given him. It had been an excellent dinner, and now he was on his way back up to the library where he and the Count were due to make the final dispositions for tomorrow’s Congress.
He had seen Menlow before dinner, and the latter had told him something which had increased his disquiet. It was nothing in itself, but its effect had been to deepen and colour the clouded atmosphere which it seemed to him was spreading within his mind. It was simply that the case containing the supplementary lenses of Menlow’s equipment, and on which he depended to make his tests, was missing.
It was not with the rest of the material, and the servants had been unable to find it. Coleridge had had a tactful word with Nadia Homolky, and as a result the Count had made his own laboratory facilities available. Menlow should be carrying out his tests now. The professor would be glad when he had the report. The matter was taking far too long for something so intrinsically simple.
Now he stood irresolute for a moment or two by the Weapons Hall door; the corridor here was lit by the pale flare of oil lamps, and in their flickery light he could see across to the glass cases of weapons, the serried racks of pikes and swords on the walls, and the suits of mediaeval armour on stands, from which the low yellow light struck passing glints.
He went in quickly, his mind made up, and stood, adjusting his eyes to the semigloom. There was no fire in here, and the atmosphere struck chill. His feet roused echoes from the heavy wooden floor as he walked slowly between the cases. He paused again, but there was no sound from the long corridor outside. The walls of the ancient building were so thick in any case that it was almost impossible to hear any noise from an adjoining chamber; only along corridors and up and down stairwells did voices carry.
Coleridge lit a match and, shielding the flame with his cupped hand, proceeded down the great room toward a case he had noted on his earlier tour. It contained more modern weapons, among them some used by the Count. Like all the display cabinets in here, it was not locked, merely secured by a metal catch.
Coleridge’s movements seemed furtive and alien to his forthright nature, and he felt almost like a thief as he opened up the lid with his disengaged hand. But he would take the opportunity of telling the Count at some appropriate moment, either tonight or during the following day. He did not want some servant blamed for his purloining the Count’s property.
He picked up the big military-type revolver, hefting its walnut butt in his hand. It was a heavy weapon, too heavy for his pocket really, but it was all he could think of. He broke it open quickly. As he had expected, it was unloaded. He picked up the cardboard box of cartridges that reposed in the case together with all the other hand weapons that nestled there on the velvet base.
Each revolver or pistol had the appropriate carton of ammunition next to it, proving that they were for the Count’s personal use. Coleridge just had time to make sure the ammunition was the right calibre for the pistol before his match went out, leaving him in semidarkness.
He closed the case noiselessly and walked cautiously up between the stands, making for the slit of yellow light that spilled in from the door. The butt of the revolver felt cold to the touch, but it gave him confidence. He was halfway between the door and the case when a heavy shadow passed across the lamplight. Coleridge stopped, his heart suddenly thumping.
He had the box of cartridges in his pocket now, but even the empty weapon in his hand was reassuring. He did not know what the shadow might portend, but there was something unspeakably sly and devious about it as it brushed slowly and cautiously between the beam cast by the lamp and the door.
There was a sudden noise as Coleridge’s outstretched foot struck the leg of one of the cases. The shadow fled then, quickly and silently down the corridor outside. The swift movement gave Coleridge renewed courage. He reached the door, flung it fully open, conscious of a faint scratching noise which died out along the passageway.
He brought the pistol barrel up, blinking in the yellow light from the oil lamps. Nothing moved in all the wide expanse. Coleridge stood for a moment. He caught a glimpse of himself in a small mirror screwed to the wall opposite. His face looked white and strained, even distorted.
With trembling fingers he took out the box of cartridges and loaded the pistol. He went on down the corridor now without caring how much noise he made. As he had expected there was nothing, and no-one visible in the passages and landings he traversed.
He put the heavy pistol in the left-hand inside breast pocket of h
is jacket, hoping its outline would not be noticed. He felt sweat trickling down his cheek as he mounted the stairs to keep his appointment with the Count.
CHAPTER 15: IVAN THE BOLD
Coleridge sipped his strong black coffee as he shuffled through his papers, his eroded nerves recovering in the mellow atmosphere of the great library. The Count sat opposite, studying the professor’s pencilled schedule, while Abercrombie’s bearded face caught the light from the overhead lamp as he sat at the table, occasionally consulting his own notes.
‘So you think the arrangements are adequate?’ the Count asked.
Coleridge nodded, keeping his tones matter-of-fact.
‘More than adequate, Count.’
His eyes caught the doctor’s. He shuffled his papers and cleared his throat.
‘Excellent!’
He rubbed his big hands, looking at each man in turn.
‘Judging by the programme set out here, our own deliberations will be even more comprehensive than those of the main Congress.’
The Count glanced over at the ornate cased clock that stood between two of the massive bookcases.
It was not yet eleven o’clock and the silence was profound; even had it been daytime, the library was so isolated and high up that little sound would have penetrated from the main body of the Castle or from Lugos itself. The Count had chosen the venue well; it was ideal for such a gathering when one needed to concentrate on lectures, study notes, and debates.
A large brass optical lantern with a metal lamphouse had been set up at the back of the chairs. Hand-coloured slide presentations would add to the interest of the principal lectures. Coleridge wished he had prepared some slides of his own, but Menlow had promised him a set which would illustrate salient points of his later discourses.
He really needed to consult the latter about a number of things before the morning, and he had hoped the doctor would have appeared before now to report the result of his tests. The Count glanced at him as though he had guessed the distinguished visitor’s thoughts.