by Basil Copper
He glanced ruefully across at the huge wooden beam into which he had driven his shoulder. His injury still gave him an occasional twinge. He would let Abercrombie have a look at it at a convenient moment. He knew that the bruise had a horrendous colouration by now; he preferred not to think of it. When he had examined it, one glance at the green-and-black mottled aspect of his flesh had been enough.
The girl was very close to him, and they stared down the corridor in silence.
‘Is this where it happened?’ she said softly.
Coleridge nodded.
‘Yes.’
Then he added briskly, ‘Somewhere about here.’
He led the way forward again, their footsteps making heavy vibrations across the parquet and setting the beams of the old walls and ceiling creaking. This section of the Castle seemed alive in a way that stone-flagged and solid-walled corridors could never be; there was something about wood and its springiness, even when cut, sawn, and pinned, that made it vibrant, almost breathing, Coleridge felt. But he must not become too fanciful in this atmosphere, though it was easy enough to do so.
The lamp outside the bathroom was still burning, so dark was the passageway, and in fact Coleridge understood it was lit day and night when guests were staying. They went on past Coleridge’s chamber.
‘Dr. Menlow’s room is just at the top of this half flight of stairs,’ the girl said. ‘The first door on the left on the landing.’
Coleridge nodded. His throat felt dry and constricted as it had when he had seen the shadow cross the Weapons Hall door.
‘I think it would be better if you stayed at the top of the stairs while I went in,’ he said.
The girl turned a puzzled face to him.
‘Why? What do you expect to find there?’
Coleridge shook his head.
‘I do not know,’ he said almost helplessly. ‘Nothing, probably. But I would feel happier if you would remain in the corridor. I will leave the door open so that you can see me, and I you.’
The girl smiled faintly.
‘That will be something,’ she said gravely, as though they were old friends who could not bear to lose sight of one another. The thought gave Coleridge comfort in the midst of his bleak imaginings. They went up the short flight quickly, as though it were better to get things over with as swiftly as possible.
The girl paused at the top while the professor went on. His heart was pounding faintly, but the heavy bulk of the pistol gave him a veneer of courage he was far from feeling. The thick oak door was unlocked and opened smoothly to his touch. The room was very similar to his own, though perhaps slightly smaller. Order and precision reigned throughout. It was the atmosphere that always prevailed in establishments where servants were cheap and plentiful.
The counterpane of the bed showed not a ruckle; either the servants had been in and tidied things or Menlow had never slept there. The fire, freshly made-up, burned steadily in the grate. Coleridge saw his face as a faint yellow oval in a long mirror he passed. The panelling was so highly polished it reflected little dancing points from the fire.
Through the lattice windows with their thick edging curtains were the dark sky and the snow falling steadily; little maggots of doubt gnawed inexorably at Coleridge’s soul. He shivered suddenly, forcing himself across the room. There was a great old wooden press in the corner that showed as a darker blur against the darkness of the panelling. There was a ruckling of the carpet near the door that Coleridge did not like.
He had the pistol out as his hand was on the door; little ganglions were quivering in his cheeks and throbbing at his throat. He flung the door open, his nerves excoriated by the harsh jangling of the hinges. There was stale air within, something else too: a pale, shapeless thing that came floating through the tangle of clothing that hung in the gloom.
Coleridge jumped to one side, an incoherent shout forcing itself through his lips. The torn corpse-thing that was Menlow hit the floor with a noise that seemed ripe and unwholesome. There was a lot of blood, and Coleridge had to clench his left hand so hard that he saw his own blood trickling down where his nails had scored the skin.
He heard the girl’s light footsteps run toward the open door, and sanity returned to him.
‘Keep back!’ he shouted, his voice strong and firm now.
He went over with studied casualness and closed the door gently but firmly on her puzzled face.
‘Fetch your father,’ he said through the panel.
He turned to the wardrobe as her footsteps died away along the corridor, but he still held the pistol ready. There was no need, really, for there was nothing else in the room, but he felt better nevertheless.
He went close to the bed and stared over at what lay on the parquet. It was then that he saw something protruding from between the stiffened fingers of the right hand.
It was just a fragment of paper, but Coleridge recognised it as the remains of the envelope in which he had put the specimen of hair and skin for Menlow’s analysis.
CHAPTER 21: ABERCROMBIE ENLISTED
The count’s eyes were like two glowing coals.
‘What you are saying is that one of us is a murderer?’
‘Or a werewolf,’ Coleridge said with a twisted smile.
The two sat in the smaller library room where Coleridge had been received on the first evening of his arrival, with an ashen-faced Nadia between them.
‘I am afraid I have kept something from you. You must forgive me, for I did not wish to alarm anyone unnecessarily.’
He had expected an angry expostulation from the Count, but it did not come. The secret sorrow still showed in the penetrating eyes beneath the shock of white hair, but his manner was calm, almost gentle, after his lack of control a few moments earlier.
‘What might that be, Professor?’
Coleridge stared at the girl’s lowered face. They sat in a semicircle in front of the blazing fire; it was early afternoon and snowing thickly outside now. The three of them had taken lunch apart on some pretext the Count had given the rest of the party. No-one outside these walls yet knew of Menlow’s death, though the Count had despatched an urgent message to bring Colonel Anton back to the Castle.
Apparently he had discussed with Rakosi details of the wolf-hunt and had disappeared shortly after Coleridge’s lecture, saying that he had urgent business. The Count had been considerably put out by this, and Coleridge would have been glad of Anton’s iron authority and sound common sense on the spot. He hoped the police chief would soon put in an appearance, as he was finding the responsibility of his secret burden trying.
He felt guilt, too, about the death of Menlow, though no-one could have foreseen the dreadful outcome of his investigations. Coleridge had immediately locked the bedroom door and given the key to the Count. All they could do now was wait for Anton’s arrival. The professor was so absorbed in his thoughts he had almost forgotten his host’s question, and he had to repeat it before Coleridge responded.
‘Menlow found something so strange, so unlooked for, beneath his microscope lens that he could hardly believe it. I felt the same myself, and I would expect the same reaction from you and your daughter.’
It was very still in the room except for the thin flicker of the flames from the fire as they weaved intricate patterns on their way up the chimney set in its handsome carved mantel.
‘We shall hardly know unless you tell us,’ Nadia Homolky put in gently.
Coleridge cleared his throat, which had suddenly become husky. He went on in a rush as if anxious to share his secret.
‘Though it is a scientific impossibility according to our present state of knowledge, what Menlow’s tests showed was that the specimen I gave him consisted of a wolf’s fur growing through human skin. In other words, the classic hallmark of the loup-garou.’
&
nbsp; Homolky narrowed his eyes, though whether with shock or surprise Coleridge could not make out. Nadia gave a little choking cry but was then herself again.
‘Incredible, isn’t it?’ Coleridge went on. ‘A real werewolf, apparently. And the last thing we expected. As you will recall, I found the sample caught on a splinter of wood in the door-panel of your daughter’s room.’
The Count’s voice was low and controlled.
‘And you believe this?’
Coleridge shrugged.
‘I give the facts, as fantastic as they may seem.’
The Count persisted, his long sensitive hands quivering in his lap.
‘You did not see this sample yourself beneath the microscope?’
Coleridge shook his head, avoiding the girl’s eye.
‘So we have only Menlow’s word for it. And now Menlow is dead.’
Coleridge felt irritation rising within him.
‘You are not questioning Menlow’s sanity, I hope? I would have vouched for him. And only the lateness of the hour last night prevented me from making my personal observations.’
The Count nodded.
‘Quite. And where is this sample now?’
Coleridge watched his host’s cigarette smoke going up straight and thin to the ceiling in the still air.
‘I found the remains of the envelope in which I had placed it clutched between Menlow’s stiffened fingers. It had been removed.’
He looked steadily into the Count’s eyes until the other’s gaze involuntarily dropped.
‘Which indicates to me that someone did not want that proof preserved. Whether the creature was animal or human – or half and half – is for Colonel Anton to decide.’
The girl shivered suddenly, and the professor withdrew his gaze from her father to give her a sympathetic glance.
‘What it does indicate to me is that Menlow spoke the truth, whatever that might mean to some of us.’
He got to his feet and took a turn or two about the room, not seeing the slowly falling swathes of snow through the narrow windows.
‘I am sorry this had to happen under your hospitable roof, Count. We must cancel the Congress, of course.’
The Count rose with a swift movement, astonishment on his face.
‘That is the last thing we must do, my dear Professor! This thing must be discounted as much as possible, to avoid alarm both within my family and among my guests and the neighbourhood. And of course it will give Colonel Anton and the police and military authorities much more freedom to track this thing down.’
There was iron in the voice now.
‘We must give out that Menlow died of a heart attack. My servant did not go near the bed. We shall say that the body was lying at the side of the bed and so was not noticed by my man.’
His eyes swept from Coleridge to his daughter and then back again.
‘The Congress must go on!’ he said firmly. ‘We all need distraction under these terrible circumstances.’
He lowered his voice suddenly, his eyes fixed on the falling flakes of snow outside.
‘And there is a very practical side to all this. Whatever killed Menlow is still within the walls of the Castle. Anton would never let anyone leave until the investigations are concluded and the whole matter cleared up.’
There was a sudden babble of voices as Coleridge came into the large panelled room where his colleagues were having afterlunch liqueurs. He found Raglan at his side, his face white and drawn. Rakosi’s eyes were on him from the far side of the room.
‘Dreadful news about Menlow! I thought something had happened to Miss Homolky.’
Despite his tension and preoccupations Coleridge felt a wry amusement at the last words. Even amidst the seriousness of the present situation young Raglan could not keep the jealousy from his voice. He shook his head.
‘No, there is nothing wrong. Her father needed her to take notes for Colonel Anton. There will have to be an official inquiry, of course. But it is undoubtedly heart failure.’
Raglan fell back, his clear-cut features expressing relief.
‘The Congress is cancelled, of course,’ said Shaw, disappointment mingling with regret in his voice. There was pain too, and he was still limping badly. His silver hair gleamed in the lamplight.
Coleridge shook his head, stilling the buzz of conversation as he raised his hand. He caught the piercing eyes of the old Countess on him; she sat in a place of honour near the fireplace, presiding at the silver-plated coffee pot.
‘The Count and I have decided – with your approval, of course – that the Congress should continue. I think it is what Dr. Menlow would have wished. All respect will be observed, naturally.’
There was relief on their faces now. Tragic as even an ordinary sudden death would have been, Coleridge could well understand their feelings; they had come endless miles in primitive conditions for this gathering. It was only natural that they should wish to continue, and it was perfectly true that Menlow himself would not have desired otherwise. They were enthusiasts to a man, like all those who followed specialised pursuits.
There was a general murmur of consent, and avoiding further questions Coleridge worked his way to Abercrombie’s side as soon as he had the opportunity. They had decided to confide in him alone for the time being; there had to be proper medical authority consulted in the case, and from what the professor had heard the big, bearded Scot was one of the best men in his field.
And his qualifications would be undoubtedly higher than those of an obscure Hungarian village practitioner who would not be specially trained in police work. Coleridge had checked on Abercrombie from the Count’s records in the extensive library archives, as he had on all those speaking at the Castle gathering, and he was well qualified to find out exactly how Menlow had met his death.
There was nothing but polite assent on his face as he listened to Coleridge’s request.
‘I shall be delighted to do what I can to assist the authorities, of course,’ he said crisply. ‘But I naturally have no surgical instruments with me.’
‘Anton has brought a medical bag from the local doctor’s equipment,’ Coleridge told him. ‘I understand you will find everything you require there. And the Count’s extensive laboratory facilities are available for any medical analysis you may wish to make.’
‘Very well,’ said Abercrombie.
He put down his coffee cup and wiped his lips fastidiously with a silk handkerchief he took from his coat-sleeve. Once outside the door Coleridge drew his colleague into the shadows of a secluded corridor. They walked slowly down while Coleridge wondered how he could broach the subject. He made up his mind quickly.
‘This is a highly confidential matter, Doctor. I would like your word that you will keep everything you learn within the next five minutes strictly to yourself.’
Abercrombie gave him a piercing glance.
‘You have it,’ he said after a perceptible hesitation.
‘This is not a normal death,’ Coleridge said. ‘I have the Count’s and Colonel Anton’s authority in making this request. We have no wish to alarm the neighbourhood. It is also imperative that the Congress continue. If it did not, it would be necessary to detain everyone here, by force of law if necessary.’
Abercrombie smiled briefly in his beard.
‘You intrigue me, Professor. It is something serious, then?’
The two men were walking down the corridor a little more quickly now, and their footsteps were magnified and reechoed by the flagstones.
Coleridge nodded.
‘Very serious indeed, Doctor. Certainly murder. Perhaps something even more atrocious, if that can be imagined.’
Abercrombie shot him a glance in which incredulity was overlaid with distaste.
‘You will have
to be more precise, Professor.’
‘I intend to be, Doctor,’ Coleridge said.
The two men had stopped as though by some obscure process of telepathy. The burly, bearded Scot provided an immensely reassuring presence to his companion; as comforting in its way as the heavy metal and walnut of the revolver in his inner pocket. The corridor was dark and chill, the flagstones seeming damp underfoot, though that was obviously imagination; they were high up here and the flags had been laid over heavy timber flooring, no doubt for durability against the constant wear of the feet of marching men-at-arms when the earlier Homolkys had kept their own private armies in ancient days.
Coleridge again thought of the sealed dungeons the Count had described, which added even more sombre tints to his racing imagination. The far door opened then, letting a shaft of light into the velvet shadow, and a servant came out.
Coleridge drew his colleague closer in to the panelled wall as though he feared something from the man’s intrusion. It was partly to do with the atmosphere of the Castle; and he could not dismiss from his mind the naked savagery of those wolf-eyes.
‘Anton inclines to murder,’ he went on. ‘He is not a medically trained man, of course, and neither am I. So I do not know what to make of the wounds on poor Menlow’s body except the obvious factor that he died a violent, unnatural death.’
Abercrombie nodded, licking fleshy lips beneath the thick beard, his eyes registering shock.
‘How had he died?’ he said. ‘It must have been a terrible experience as you found the body. Did you notice?’