The House of the Wolf

by Basil Copper

  The Count drew in his breath with a quick rasping noise, but he still stood immobile, his shadow dark and distorted on the wall.

  ‘When I opened my door an hour or so ago I could not really believe what I saw. There was a great wolf in the corridor. It seemed to understand that the pistol spelt danger, and it made off very rapidly.’

  Coleridge paused. He suddenly felt very tired, and his arm and shoulder were paining him again.

  ‘Its action reminded me of the beast Colonel Anton fired at without any seeming effect. Unfortunately, I had forgotten to throw off the safety-catch in the excitement of the moment, or it would have been a very different story.’

  His eyes met the Count’s, and a strange, almost hostile, glance passed between the two.

  ‘The beast knew this also, Count, for it came back toward me as fast as it could, ready to tear my throat out. I had the safety free by this time, and the animal made off again. I cannot be certain, but I think I wounded it slightly in the off hindleg.’

  The Count’s eyes were very bright now as he stared at Coleridge.

  ‘I went to follow, but unfortunately I had not noticed that projecting beam in the corridor and I ran headlong onto it. The pain was such that I dropped the revolver and lost consciousness.’

  The Count could not keep the astonishment from his voice.

  ‘What are you telling me, Professor?’

  Homolky’s pronunciation trembled very slightly despite his iron self-control.

  ‘That we have a bizarre situation here, Count,’ said Coleridge in a voice so low that the other had to strain to pick out the words.

  There was shock in the big man’s eyes.

  ‘I must call in Colonel Anton. What does this all mean?’

  ‘I am not certain,’ Coleridge said. ‘There is a dark tangle and much danger overhanging your household.’

  He cleared his throat with a low rasping noise in the silence of the shadowy room.

  ‘There are just two alternatives. A wolf. Or a werewolf. With the available evidence pointing to the latter.’

  CHAPTER 18: NADIA

  Coleridge drained his second cup of coffee and sat staring moodily at the icy landscape spread out far below his window. He had had only four hours’ sleep, and his arm still throbbed.

  He felt incredibly tired, but his mind was clear. He had the opening lecture of the Congress to deliver in less than two hours, and he was determined to do justice to his theme.

  The professor smiled grimly to himself. The subject of his lecture was extremely apposite at this moment. The Count had had his breakfast served in his room, and he sat at a table near the roaring fire, well-being gradually seeping back into his body. Following his conversation with his host a few hours earlier he had deliberately blanked off his mind, forcing himself into exhausted sleep.

  Now his brain was incredibly busy, but he had gone over all the ground at length; there was no sense in retracing the situation until he had further data to work on.

  He wanted to see Menlow before they went in for the opening session. He had sworn him to secrecy, but he needed to make sure that his colleague did not inadvertently spread the story about the Castle. It would do no good and merely alarm the servants. As the Count had indicated, no-one had apparently heard anything untoward the previous night; the bearded attendant could be relied upon for discretion, and he had not spoken to anyone other than the Count regarding the night’s events.

  Anton would have to go about his inquiries with circumspection. The Count had already been in to see Coleridge at the same time the breakfast was served; he had communicated these facts to his guest when they were once again alone. Coleridge found it incredible that no-one should have heard his pistol shot and his fall, apart from the man descending the stairs. But there it was.

  The guest wing was as isolated as that for the Count’s own family; the walls of the bedrooms were several feet thick, as Coleridge had already observed, and as Homolky had himself pointed out. If everyone had been fast asleep – and it had been in the middle of the night – then the incident, however shattering for Coleridge, might well have passed unnoticed. It was only one more strange facet of this wild and romantic household.

  He replaced the cup in his saucer with a faint clink that seemed to erode the edges of the brooding silence. His immediate problem was what to say to the girl. The Count had promised he would not speak to her before Coleridge had had the opportunity to do so. And he would, of course, be absolutely forthright and tell her exactly what he had told her father.

  That was the most urgent necessity. There was deadly danger here, and there was now no point in minimising it, though he would not speak of what he had finally seen before he had passed out. Coleridge’s conscience was already nagging him about the problem of his colleagues. They would have to be told at some stage, and it was possible that they also were in some danger while this thing was prowling around. But there was no sense in alarming the inhabitants of the Castle unnecessarily.

  And as his host had stressed, he did not want his wife, and particularly his aged mother, worried at the situation. That was something they would have to meet in due course. And there was another problem, too, in the fantastic circumstances of the whole business: Coleridge had no desire to be ridiculed by his scientific colleagues who might merely suspect him of romantically embellishing his own particular subject.

  The thing had appeared to Coleridge and the girl; the Count and his personal servant were the only other people privy to the facts. It was best to leave it at that. There was Menlow, of course. He was a strong-minded person and might have ideas of his own about the situation. Coleridge glanced at his silver-cased watch. He still had an hour and a half yet before he was due to deliver his lecture. He walked over toward the bedside table, reloaded the revolver, and replaced the weapon in his pocket.

  He came back and poured himself a third cup of coffee, conscious that thin rays of sunlight were staining the window casement. With the combined warmth of the fire and the coffee his spirits were rising as his physical condition was restored.

  Coleridge’s mind still shied away from the supernatural theory, but his scientific training reinforced the unlikeliness of an ordinary wolf prowling the corridors, apart from the impossibility of such an animal turning door-handles and trying to gain entry. Wolves, moreover, were normally shy and timid creatures, despite their reputation for ferocity, and they tended to move and hunt in packs. What would one be doing within the Castle, leaving aside the problem of its method of entry?

  Again, no-one had seen the animal except Coleridge; it had then completely disappeared, and, certainly from the discreet inquiries the Count had been able to make early in the morning, none of the servants or the guests had seen or heard anything untoward. Menlow’s microscope tests posited another theory, and Coleridge was finding it grim and unpalatable, however much it favoured his own particular subject and the whole realm of folklore in which he and his colleagues were so immersed. He would not speak of that until a more suitable moment.

  There had been no blood in the corridor; Coleridge had looked before anyone was about. He was sure he had at least grazed the creature’s leg, and it might have been limping and losing blood. But there was nothing on the parquet or in the corridor adjoining, not even a few cut hairs that would have given Coleridge some comfort in the nonsupernatural direction.

  Though he had found the hole his bullet had made; it had lodged at the foot of a massive beam at the end of the corridor, about six inches from the floor, which strengthened Coleridge’s impression that he had wounded the beast’s leg.

  Even that left out of account the image of those naked feet running from the scene just before he had lost consciousness. That was the most incontrovertible truth and an aspect that he had thrust firmly to the back of his thoughts. But its reality could no
t be denied, and its ugliness was growing on him as the minutes ticked by on the face of his watch.

  There was a faint tapping at the door now, and Coleridge rose with some relief. It was not good to be alone with these gnawing problems.

  ‘Good morning, Professor.’

  It was Nadia Homolky who stood there, and one glance at Coleridge’s face had told her that her worst fears had been realised.

  The girl was silent for a long while as Coleridge finished speaking. Her brown eyes regarded him steadily. Her face had become more anxious as his narrative developed, and she moved forward impulsively and put her small hand over the back of his own.

  ‘I am so sorry I got you involved in this.’

  Coleridge shook his head.

  ‘This morning’s incident would have happened in any case.’

  And then, as she looked at him with a faint air of disbelief, he went on, ‘I am certain of that.’

  Nadia Homolky expelled her breath in a long shuddering sigh and stirred restlessly in the big padded fireside chair next to Coleridge. A bar of light coming in from the casement behind them seemed to strike a radiance from her hair. Once again Coleridge was vividly aware of this young woman’s physical attraction, but he was no longer discomfited by it. The strange situation in which they found themselves had made them accomplices.

  ‘I am glad you told Father,’ she said at last, reluctantly removing her fingers from his. ‘It is better so.’

  She put up her hand to her hair, her head on one side as she regarded Coleridge.

  ‘He will not tell Mother and Grandmother?’

  The professor shook his head.

  ‘He assured me of that.’

  He leaned forward, looking at her steadily.

  ‘You have not asked me the most important question.’

  The girl smiled faintly, though there was still concern at the back of her eyes.

  ‘I am waiting for you to tell me what you think. We are not dealing with a real wolf, are we? Like me, you think there is something supernatural behind it.’

  Coleridge sat back in his chair. Fatigue had fallen away from him and the ache in his left shoulder was disappearing, though there was massive bruising of the skin, as he had already ascertained. He would get Abercrombie to look at it if there were any medical complications.

  ‘You know what lycanthropy is, I suppose?’

  The girl smiled again, genuinely this time. The shadows had temporarily cleared from her face.

  ‘There are two strands, are there not? At least, according to Father. One is a sort of disease. The other, the stuff of legend in which men have the power to change themselves into beasts?’

  Coleridge nodded.

  ‘Well and succinctly put. I have devoted several volumes to the same basic propositions.’

  He was silent for a moment or two as though collecting his thoughts. Then he went on with a rush.

  ‘I do not believe this is a time for scholarly dissertations. I will put things as briefly as I can. And then we must simply follow events as they occur.’

  A sudden flash of alarm passed across Nadia Homolky’s face.

  ‘You think something else may happen, then?’

  Coleridge’s expression was grave.

  ‘There must be a purpose behind these manifestations. No, I do not think this thing has finished. On the contrary, I think it is just beginning.’

  He went on before she could say anything further.

  ‘There is a significant difference between the two legends relating to lycanthropy and that of vampirism. The former was believed by the ancients to be a disease which might afflict anyone among them, causing them to behave like ravening beasts. They would discard their clothing, fur would grow on their bodies and limbs, and when the moon was full they would roam the night, seeking victims whom they would savage and destroy in the manner of wolves.’

  The girl shivered, but her eyes were fixed unwaveringly on Coleridge’s face.

  ‘I have heard Father speak of such things. But it is physically impossible, is it not, for such a transformation to take place.’

  Coleridge nodded.

  ‘Scientifically speaking, yes. But there are many instances in ancient records of a medical condition which was akin to such phenomena. The victims were impelled to discard their clothing, howled and behaved like beasts, and ran about uncontrollably in the light of the moon.’

  Coleridge paused, a heavy sigh escaping him. He smiled wryly.

  ‘But I am beginning to sound like my public persona. I trust I am not boring you.’

  Nadia Homolky shook her head.

  ‘Far from it, Professor. Father said the difference between the two conditions of the vampire and the werewolf was that the vampire was a natural evil spirit which exulted in roaming the earth and drinking the blood of the living. But the werewolf was merely an unfortunate wretch visited by some weird and little-known disease which compelled him to do things against his nature. He had no wish to do evil and was thus a victim.’

  Coleridge inclined his head, enthusiasm flashing in his eyes.

  ‘Your father is perfectly correct in those basic tenets, though the pedant might argue with such a simplistic interpretation.’

  He smiled briefly at the girl’s expression.

  ‘There is a good deal more to lycanthropy and the legends which have accreted round it than that, of course. And the whole apparatus which guards against the vampire is useless in the case of the werewolf. The only basic trait they have in common is that both are confined to the night, creatures of the dark hours. And it was widely believed that the silver bullet was the only antidote to the lycanthrope, the wolf-victim, though that is not strictly correct.’

  He consulted his watch, noting that he still had a little time.

  ‘You should attend my opening lecture, Miss Homolky. You may not enjoy it, but you would at least learn a good deal more about this thing.’

  ‘I would like to, Professor, if my father has no objection.’

  Coleridge shrugged.

  ‘I do not see why he should. But if you wish, I will speak to him about it before the Congress begins.’

  The girl had a hesitant expression, and she bit her lip as though reluctant to go on.

  ‘Please understand me, Professor. I was horrified when you told me of your experiences just now . . .’

  ‘But you were relieved that they had not been confined to you alone.’

  The girl nodded, catching her breath. She seemed to be listening for something that Coleridge could not hear. Something stirring in the long corridor outside? Or was the guest becoming fanciful, and was she really more concerned in case her father came back and found them tête-à-tête by the fire in Coleridge’s bedroom?

  Once again Coleridge felt an inward embarrassment. Then his resolve strengthened. This business was far too dangerous and important to let ordinary conventions stand in the way. And Raglan must think as he liked.

  ‘I have still not heard your scientific explanation for what happened last night,’ the girl went on.

  ‘I have none. I hope and trust there will be some quite logical dénouement. But I know what I saw. It was no hallucination. There was a great wolf in the corridor. I fired at it and struck it a slight blow on the off hindpaw.’

  He looked at Nadia Homolky grimly.

  ‘It was something I shall never forget.’

  ‘But what shall we do?’ the girl persisted.

  Coleridge’s voice was firm and decisive.

  ‘Take precautions, my dear young lady. Any other questions must wait.’

  He got up and walked over toward the door.

  ‘And now, permit me to escort you to the Congress’s opening session.’

  CHAPTER 19
: THE LIMPING MAN

  ‘Therefore, to the man of science there remains one inescapable conclusion. That this wolf is a true werewolf and lives on through the ages in myth and legend.’

  Coleridge finished to a thin ripple of applause. He bowed, feeling satisfaction that the paper was a good one and that he had delivered it to the best of his ability. He reached forward and sipped at the glass of water on the lectern in front of him.

  ‘And now, gentlemen, if there are any questions I shall be pleased to answer them.’

  There was no lacking in response. Abercrombie was the first, as the speaker had thought he might be. Beneath his bluff exterior was a fine, shrewd brain. He would be quick to find a chink in the armour of any unprepared speaker, but Coleridge had done his groundwork well; it was not like him to prepare a sloppy paper, and he was convinced that his reasoning was as accurate as it could be in the light of modern knowledge.

  The rest of the area was lost in shadowy speculation, and he had been careful not to exceed his given bounds. He need not have been worried. Abercrombie was courteous and polite. He really wanted to know what was the true medical basis for the holocaust of werewolf trials in mediaeval times, and Coleridge was able to amplify his reply until it became a miniature lecture in itself. He was grateful to Abercrombie for opening out the discussion like this, and he intended to do justice to the subject.

  He caught the girl’s expression and it was approving, though her eyes held him in a way he would have found uncomfortable if he had persisted in looking at her. She was sitting next to Colonel Anton; he was in full uniform, which meant he was there on official business, and the Star of Krasnia threw off golden glints as he shifted in his seat.