The House of the Wolf

by Basil Copper

  There was electric light in here, coming from fittings suspended from long cords in the glass ceiling. There was also an enormous weight of snow upon the heavy iron trusses, Coleridge could see, but judging from the clear patches in the glass roof it was obviously melting from time to time because of the warmth within.

  And it was warm after Coleridge’s long climb up among the draughty stone staircases. He walked down the gleaming aisle of filing cabinets, making sure the place was empty. There was almost no sound up here apart from an occasional creaking noise which he took to be either the weight of snow upon the iron girders supporting the roof or perhaps the wind buffeting the great mass of ice.

  Beyond him was a green jungle where writhing vegetation rioted among the white metal staircases and balconies, giving the Homolky hothouses the appearance of some fantastic spa; perhaps Baden-Baden or Vichy, seen as though in a distorting mirror or in some troubled dream. Coleridge was no botanist, and he could not identify many of the colourful blooms that trailed gaudy blossom like blood or brilliant orange across the vista. It was an incredible tropical contrast to the bleakness outside.

  Then he remembered his role, thinking he might well be watched from among the heavy banks of blossom. He quickly put the pistol back into his pocket, hoping that Abercrombie was securely placed to come to his aid quickly if danger threatened. He opened the big glass door in front of him and stepped into a heavy, cloying atmosphere that seemed as oppressive as the Matto Grosso.

  The white balcony appeared to sway and give rather too much for Coleridge’s sense of security, and he instinctively clutched the railing at his right elbow. It was very hot indeed, and he hoped this would not take too long. Perspiration was already making his shirt stick to his back.

  He paused, looking down into the vast arena spread below him where pools of water bearing great tropical lily pads gave back the electric light a thousandfold.

  He and Abercrombie had worked out exactly what he was to do, but Coleridge, consulting his watch, deliberately slowed the routine. He was convinced he had been followed here, and he had to allow time for the creature to discover him at his task.

  He went along the balcony and onto a sort of ornamental teak bridge in the Chinese style, red-painted and frail-looking, that spanned an awesome drop and led to the opposing balcony. It was a huge place, and Coleridge could glimpse other greenhouses beyond, faintly seen through the vast sheets of glass, but the lights were switched off in those and he knew that whatever drama had been planned for tonight would be played out here.

  He walked quickly across the teak bridge, anxious to get off it, and did not breathe more easily until he had gained the other side. He first wanted to make sure he had an escape route near before committing himself fully to the scheme he had agreed with Abercrombie. He could now see that the balconies ran round all four sides of the enormous conservatory; that they were connected by catwalks and staircases to each other and to other gangways and staircases that led to the ground floor.

  He had his foot on the first step of one of these, in the act of going down, when the half-hour struck from the Castle clock, enormously magnified up here at the very top of the vast edifice and brought clearly in the bitterly cold air outside by the strength of the wind that was driving the snow.

  There was now no sense in delaying; Abercrombie was obviously in position, and whatever creature had been following him on the staircases of the lower Castle had had time to reach the conservatories. This was the worst moment so far as Coleridge was concerned, and he felt his limbs beginning to tremble as he set off down the series of stairs that led to the ground floor of the glasshouse.

  He felt exposed and insignificant down here, under the light of the overhead lamps, and his eyes flickered from one set of white-painted balconies to another, but nothing moved in the artificial yellow glare.

  The green foliage, broken by the crude colours of the exotic flowers, rose thickly about him the farther down he went, and he again caught the heavy, cloying stench that appeared to have something unhealthy and decadent about it. The greenery was more dense than he had supposed, rising in a wall high above his head and full of shadows. The large fleshy leaves looked artificial and rubbery; others like wax flowers of foliage, shining and still in the stagelike atmosphere.

  The dark water of the lily ponds reflected the lights in crescents, spirals, and stars as he walked quickly along, his feet rattling on the pierced metal flooring that was designed for quick and easy drainage. There was a sort of aisle in the centre, between two of the largest semicircular ponds, that acted as a focus of attention; in the very middle of the aisle, Abercrombie had told him, was an ornamental palm let into heavy trunking. It was in the earth at its foot that he proposed to dig.

  The foliage was so high now that Coleridge could see only dripping green shadow on all sides of him. It was a bad place, but at least there was the outlet of the staircases and he could see all the broad blankness of the airy white balconies from here. He walked over swiftly, the revolver heavy against his chest muscles, and selected a small trowel from a rack of implements that was screwed to a metal railing here.

  He took one more look round the high arcading of this gigantic horticultural cathedral before kneeling to dig at the foot of the palm. As he did so an enormous shadow passed across the lighting, and the ferns at his back stirred.

  Before he could regain his feet there was a snarling sound that raised the hairs on his neck, and the gigantic wolf with the grey patch on its back broke cover and stood for one horrifying second glaring at him.

  Then, as he shouted and cowered away, it launched itself at his throat.

  Coleridge had fallen clumsily and rolled over, which saved his life. The beast’s charge carried it so close, some of the rough hairs of its flank rasped across his cheek and he could feel the warmth of its reeking, foetid breath. He shouted again, and this seemed to alarm the creature because it swerved in midflight and cannoned into a large iron upright, seeming to make the whole conservatory shake.

  Desperation now had given Coleridge a clear head. He had the pistol out, tugging it free of his pocket, throwing back the safety-catch. Its click was enormously magnified by the acres of glass around them. The animal seemed to understand the sound because it went straight on without stopping.

  The explosion appeared tremendous in that vast space; the wolf trembled as it went up the opposite staircase, and Coleridge saw with triumph that he had slightly wounded it in the off forepaw, because it was limping and trailing blood. It was vulnerable then. Before he heard the crack of breaking glass in the background, he loosed off another shot which whined viciously off a metal stanchion.

  Fear flooded through Coleridge as the wolf disappeared into thick foliage at the top of the staircase. There was still no sign of Abercrombie. Everything was silent again, except for the distant drip of water somewhere. This was even worse than what had happened in the previous seconds, and Coleridge then knew real fear.

  He was drenched with perspiration which ran down into his eyes, and he rubbed with the back of his unoccupied hand to clear his vision. Nothing moved in all the wide expanse of glass but the very faintest agitation of fronds, which seemed to herald the passing of the lurking menace. Coleridge was on his feet again and, crouching, made his way to the foot of the nearest staircase; it was almost opposite the one up which the wolf had disappeared, and he dare not follow that closely.

  Then followed perhaps the worst five minutes of his life. He was to all intents and purposes alone in the pitiless glare of the electric light; the tropical softness of the enormous conservatories about him; the only sound the faint liquid beat as water dripped onto the dark surface of a pool; the stealthy whisper of slowly moving fronds eating away at his nerves; every shadow in this clouded jungle a potential danger.

  He held the revolver ready as he eased up the metal staircase, e
very tread seeming to squeak and protest in an exaggerated way. The man-beast had supernatural cunning; Coleridge had no doubt of that. There had not been a sound since its disappearance into the dense green undergrowth, but the professor knew that fierce yellow eyes watched and noted his every movement from the shadow.

  He was near to breaking point when he heard the footsteps, reverberating and magnified on the metal treads of the balcony. Relief flooded through him; that would be Abercrombie. Surely enough, there was the bearded head, white teeth gleaming as he stared from the foliage high overhead.

  ‘There you are, Professor.’

  A pistol flared as Coleridge, bewildered, sagged against the balcony. He saw the heavy figure of Abercrombie break cover from the greenery. He clutched his stomach and tottered at the edge of the railing. Coleridge could hear distant shouts now, and the sound of running feet.

  He turned as the pistol flashed again, could not believe what he saw. For Abercrombie was perched high among the forest of metal struts and columns that supported the roof, his face alight with triumph.

  ‘There is your werewolf, Professor!’ he cried, smoke ascending to the high ceiling from the barrel of his pistol.

  The bearded figure on the balcony was going down now, taking a great section of the metal railing with him. He bounced once or twice on the lower balconies, making the gigantic structure of the conservatory vibrate and echo as though at any moment the whole thing must collapse. The man and the heavy mass of metal plunged into one of the lily ponds in a high plume of spray, and then the body reemerged, rocking slightly, arms and legs star-shaped as though crucified. Red stains spread out across the dark water.

  Coleridge felt sick and turned away. He was aware now of the white shock of the Count’s hair on the high balcony. The military figure of Colonel Anton, pistol drawn, strode to the edge of the railing and stared down grimly. Coleridge could see Rakosi clattering briskly down one of the far staircases. The whole high dome was full of the distant echo and murmur of voices as others hurried to the scene.

  Coleridge was aware that Abercrombie was at his side, his clothes smothered with dust, pain distorting his features. He looked long at the body in the pool.

  ‘I am sorry I had to expose you to that, Professor. I could not shoot when the wolf jumped because you were between me and the target. I had to make sure.’

  Coleridge nodded. He felt too shocked and shattered to fully comprehend what had happened. He let the other take his arm and guide him down the stair and across the main floor of the conservatory to where the obscene thing in the pool floated gently. There seemed to be much blood now.

  Colonel Anton’s harsh orders were spitting out. Coleridge saw the Count run back; whether to get more help or to keep the servants away he did not know. He could see the pale ovals of horrified faces at the edges of the high balconies. Rakosi ran past him with a rake he had found somewhere. He waded into the pool and prodded at the figure, drawing it slowly toward the edge. Coleridge stared uncomprehendingly as the captain bent to turn it over.

  Abercrombie went to help him, and with much grunting and straining the two levered the corpse onto the floor of the conservatory. Coleridge found himself looking at the blanched features of George Parker.

  Abercrombie glanced at him sympathetically.

  ‘As we suspected, Professor. And a true werewolf.’

  He shrugged massively, his eyes on the immaculate figure of Colonel Anton, who was stiffly descending the white staircase with his drawn pistol still in his hand.

  ‘I have come round to your way of thinking,’ Abercrombie went on. He looked again at the dead face of the man-beast.

  ‘I used the Count’s laboratory up there. With his permission, of course. For a special purpose.’

  He tapped his pistol significantly.

  ‘I used silver bullets, to make sure this time.’

  CHAPTER 40: WOLF OR WEREWOLF?

  ‘I thought you did not believe in werewolves,’ the Count said.

  The Countess shrugged. She looked white and her arm was still bandaged, but something of her old immaculate beauty had come back to her.

  ‘I do now,’ she said grimly.

  The blizzard had blown itself out within the week, as predicted, and most of the guests had already left. There was just Coleridge and Abercrombie; the former was saying goodbye to Nadia on the floor below while the doctor finished his packing.

  The Count stirred his tea with a faint tinkle of the spoon in the silence of the small drawing-room, which faced the front of the Castle and had a fine view over Lugos and the rolling hills beyond. Dusk was starting to fall, and lights were burning small holes in the wide expanse of snow.

  ‘Dr. Istvan’s report was a surprise,’ the Countess said, almost dreamily, as her cobalt eyes gazed unseeingly out the window.

  ‘But a great relief,’ the Count rejoined. ‘Mother would never have locked her door, so her end under those circumstances would have been agony.’

  He smiled at his wife sadly.

  ‘She was already dead when the wolf savaged her. That would have appealed to Mother.’

  ‘She was very old,’ Countess Sylva said softly. ‘And I had noticed a slight failing in recent months. It was her heart, Istvan said. She could have died at any time.’

  ‘If Sanders, or whatever this creature called himself, had not stopped to attack Mother, you would be dead now,’ said the Count.

  His wife’s hand sought his across the tabletop. They sat there in silence for some while, almost awkwardly, as their love was so deep and intimate it was almost too difficult for them to give it audible expression.

  ‘Poor Raglan,’ she said.

  The Count’s eyes were smouldering now.

  ‘Poor Raglan,’ he repeated. ‘Coleridge was right. He had been hanged from the window bars. And the professor did see him there. But the thing came back and cut the rope. He plunged straight down through the wooden roof of one of the courtyard outhouses.’

  ‘And the snow covered everything over,’ the Countess added.

  Her eyes went to the small black notebook which lay by the Count’s right hand.

  ‘If it had not been for this diary, which Bela brought to me an hour or two ago, so much would have remained vague and unclear,’ her husband said.

  ‘I am still uncertain . . .’ the Countess began. ‘I hope you are going to tell me.’

  The Count gave her a thin smile, emphasising his sharpened teeth which were characteristic of the Homolky family.

  ‘I always tell you everything, my dear. Raglan hid this diary under the mattress of his bed. It was his insurance in case anything happened to him.’

  ‘I hope he was what he appeared to be,’ the Countess murmured. ‘There has been so much deception . . .’

  The Count nodded.

  ‘The diary makes it clear that Raglan was the folklorist and writer whom we knew by repute. He was an official delegate to the Congress in Pest. But what we did not know was that he had recently been appointed to the staff of a lunatic asylum near Manchester, in England.’

  There was surprise in the Countess’s eyes now.

  ‘The one in which Sanders had been incarcerated?’

  ‘Exactly. He had escaped some months before, so Raglan did not know him personally or what he looked like. All he had to go on was an ancient photograph. But he found in Sanders’s room an old copy of The Times. There was an article in it about the forthcoming Congress in Pest later in the year. It had been heavily ringed round in ink by the patient.’

  ‘Together with some material about our own miniature Congress at Castle Homolky,’ the Countess put in softly.

  ‘Exactly. Raglan had to come here in any event. He also hoped to track down the asylum’s escaped patient. From what he says in his diary it was a long ch
ance, but one he felt he had to follow up. For he knew from the case-notes of the tragic background to the man’s history, of course.’

  ‘So he enlisted Nadia’s help and also hoped to warn Coleridge,’ said the Countess.

  She abruptly changed the subject.

  ‘What do you think of the professor as a prospective son-in-law? Is he not a little old for her?’

  The Count chuckled.

  ‘I see no objections. He is only about forty-three. Nadia will be nineteen in a week’s time. Coleridge is a handsome and distinguished man. Wealthy as well, which also helps.’

  His wife smiled archly.

  ‘You are becoming cynical in your more mature years.’

  The Count held up his hand.

  ‘Practical, my dear. I think they will make a very good match. And in any case Nadia is as headstrong as you. We could never stand against the two of them. And the young always get their own way, do they not?’

  They were interrupted by a tapping at the door. Coleridge was there with the girl.

  The two men clasped hands warmly. It was almost dark now, and from the drawing-room windows Lugos with its lights and the crisply spreading snow looked like a fairy-tale village. But everyone in the room knew what lay beneath and were not deceived.

  ‘The black wolf was shot this morning,’ the Countess offered.

  Coleridge nodded, his eyes fixed on the golden beauty of Nadia.

  ‘Colonel Anton told me. It relied on the laws of chance once too often, it seems.’

  He turned apologetically to the Countess.

  ‘Nadia and I are meeting in Paris in six weeks’ time. With your permission, of course. There is much to arrange. And I have some business there before returning to London to take up a new post.’

  ‘You promised to learn Hungarian,’ Homolky reminded him. ‘You will then be able to take advantage of my private library.’