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-infested 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 his 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.
‘I am somewhat disappointed at the lack of response to my invitation tonight, Professor,’ he began hesitantly. ‘I had envisaged that most of your colleagues would have been here.’
Coleridge gave his host a reassuring smile.
‘The majority of them are simply tired out with the strenuous day we have enjoyed. I am sure you will find no lack of enthusiasm in the morning.’
The Count smiled too. Coleridge realised he had gone to immense trouble in his arrangements, and he wished above all to emphasise that everyone gathered at the Castle had come there simply because of their tremendous interest and application to their specialised subjects. They would hardly have travelled so far and in such bleak conditions had it been otherwise.
The Count may have sensed this, because he became more animated as time went by and he presently rose courteously to pour his guests coffee. He was still over at the side-table when Abercrombie, who had been studying his companion closely, observed quietly, ‘You look rather pale, Professor.’
‘It is nothing,’ Coleridge replied carelessly. ‘I feel the cold a good deal, and, as I have just observed, it has been a tiring day.’
Abercrombie shrugged.
‘Even so, Coleridge, I should not overdo it. I understand you drove yourself rather hard at the Congress.’
It was true, Coleridge knew, and he was grateful for the big Scot’s consideration and concern. He was a medical man, of course, as well as a scholar, and it was obvious that the incident in the Weapons Hall a short while before had shaken Coleridge more than he cared to admit, though there might be a mundane explanation for what he had seen and heard.
The heavy revolver made a strong pressure against his shoulder muscles as he turned in his chair, and he hoped it would not be too obvious to his companions.
He was spared any further conversation on the subject of his health by the Count’s return with the coffee cups, and a few moments later there came the clattering of feet on the stairs and the door opened to admit the animated figures of Shaw, Sullivan, and Parker.
‘I understand we are to expect something special for the opening ceremony tomorrow, Professor.’
It was Shaw, with his silver hair and drooping moustache shining like metal in the lamplight, who had propounded the question. He sat, coffee cup on the table in front of him, blinking in scholarly anticipation.
‘Things will hardly be that formal,’ said Coleridge modestly.
He noticed his fingers were trembling slightly as he put his cup back in the saucer. He had not told his host or anyone else of the shadow at the Weapons Hall door or, even more unnerving, the faint clicking scratch as something went down the corridor.
It was too reminiscent of what Nadia Homolky fancied she had heard outside her room. He wondered what could be keeping Menlow. Something that had started out as a comparatively trivial inquiry was beginning to nag at his nerves.
He became aware that Sullivan, the middle-aged savant with the greying beard, was also looking at him critically. He still wore the suit of dark brown plus-fours he had affected at breakfast the previous day and which made him look as if he were bound for a Scottish grouse-moor.
‘Your opening lecture will be on lycanthropy, of course?’ the latter said.
Coleridge forced a smile.
‘It is my specialised subject. And we all begin in those areas, do we not.’
There was a chuckle of agreement from George Parker, the big black-bearded expert on witchcraft, among other things.
‘I shall certainly stick to my own brief in my initial talk,’ he told the company. ‘I am giving fair notice of that now.’
The Count joined in the subdued amusement that ran round the table.
‘I do not think anyone here is likely to usurp another’s special preserve,’ Coleridge went on.
He turned to the Count, aware that there was more than normal interest in their deliberations of the morrow. Unlike the highly publicised and extremely crowded Congress they had recently completed in Pest, this private gathering, in addition to being more informal, was also more interesting in some respects.
It was an occasion – there had been others in America, England, and France during the past ten years – where more controversial topics were aired; sometimes, even outrageous hobby-horses ridden.
It was a programme where daring ideas, outré theories, and bizarre conjectures could be expanded upon without ridicule and, usually, without prejudiced reaction from one’s colleagues.
The Count, as Coleridge well knew, had done an enormous amount over the years in an amateur capacity to advance these highly specialised interests, and everyone gathered at the Castle for this specific purpose was in his debt.
That reminded Coleridge of a promise made that morning and which now appeared so far distant. So much seemed to have happened to him since his arrival a bare twenty-four hours before, the days felt at least twice as long as they did anywhere else. It was something to do with their strange venue, more with the fresh impressions, new faces, and crowded itinerary; each experience pressed upon the last.
The girl had a good deal to do with it, Coleridge thought, and not only because of her fears and suppositions: the fresh beauty of her face came between the professor and the pages of his books. His scholarship seemed to have lost something of its savour since he had met her.
There was a deep silence in the room now as each man considered what he might be saying at their first session of the morning. Coleridge cleared his throat, aware that the eyes of everyone in the lecture room were turned upon him.
‘I asked you about the history of the Castle this morning, Count. You promised to tell me something of it.’
He raked his glance about the room. Homolky came over from the fireplace and looked at Coleridge with hooded eyes.
‘So I did,’ he said softly.
Coleridge felt a moment of quick discomfiture. He bit his lip.
‘I take it you have no objection to speaking in front of my colleagues?’
The Count shook his head. He was smiling now.
‘By no means. We are all folklorists here, are we not.’
He went to sit in a big carved chair at the head of the table. The room was very quiet apart from the crackling of the fire, and the rest of the Castle seemed to be lapped in a profound sleep.
Homolky shrugged.
‘My home is known among the people of Lugos as The House of the Wolf. As some of you may have noticed, a wolf’s head is the motif of some of the furnishings, notably the large and elaborate firedogs which embellish a number of the great fireplaces in the main rooms. It is also part of my ancient family coat of arms.’
He had his eyes fixed on a fragment of blazing log which had fallen from the firebasket and smouldered smokily on the hearth, away from the main mass of the fire.
‘The association relates not only, as might be supposed, to the native Eastern European wolf, our old friend
Canis lupus.
The derivation comes also from a certain savage ancestor of mine, who enlarged the present building and had a somewhat fiendish reputation for cruelty, to put it mildly.’
To Coleridge it seemed as though the faintest shiver ran through the Count’s tall frame.
‘He was an extraordinary man,’ the Count went on almost dreamily. ‘A genius in some ways, a degenerate monster in others. A man of great culture and artistic taste, a gifted amateur painter, an inventor of ingenious machinery that was long before his own time. But within the same envelope there resided a creature who could put his enemies to death with all the perverted refinement that only a sadist of the grand class could encompass.’
There was a deep silence in the room now, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire. The Count’s voice was so low that Coleridge had to strain his ears.
‘He developed instruments in the dungeons below this Castle that were so delicately adjusted, so finely balanced, that his enemies took weeks to die.’
Once again Coleridge had the vivid image of the mutilated majordomo who had greeted him on arrival at the Castle, and he was hard put to it to repress a tremor.
‘I could show you things . . .’ the Count went on absently, his eyes fixed as though on far distances.
‘Do you mean to say that all this . . . equipment . . . still exists?’ put in Abercrombie.
The Count nodded.
‘My father showed it to me once. It is a sort of black museum where every horror known to man in the Middle Ages was practised unchecked. No-one knows how many men and women perished there.’
He smiled faintly.
‘Of course, this is for your ears only. I never discuss the matter with the ladies of my family, though they know the general outlines of the story. My ancestor’s portrait hangs somewhere in the Castle. I will not specify where, as the picture still has an unnerving look to someone like me who knows the man’s history.’
The Count hesitated a moment, then resumed his narrative.
‘Of course, I had the dungeon area bricked up when I succeeded to the title. It is below the modern cellars, and no-one has been there for the greater part of my lifetime. It is better so.’
There was a faint stir among the guests, as though they had been held in some sort of spell.
‘Your ancestor would himself seem suitable for a learned paper,’ George Parker put in.
He had intended only to be helpful, but Coleridge saw a wince of distaste pass across their host’s face. He shook his head sombrely.
‘I think not,’ he said softly. ‘Normally, I would say everything is a fit subject for research. But this history is too painful for me personally.’
He seemed to recollect his wider audience and paused to glance at each face in turn as if he would imprint the details on his memory.
‘Anyone at the Congress is welcome to research the Count in my library,’ he said slowly. ‘But I would not advise it.’
‘Has this man a name?’ Abercrombie persisted.
The Count nodded.
‘Ivan the Bold,’ he said simply. ‘He was known as the Wolf of the Mountains. He was a great wolf-hunter, and you may see many of his trophies of the chase which hang on the walls of this Castle. It was he who gave the Castle its name. In fact, my ancestor’s exploits malign a noble animal which is a good mate and parent, loyal to its tribe, and normally kills only to eat when it is hungry.’
A genuine smile of pleasure passed across Homolky’s mobile features. He chuckled quietly. It was a startling sound in the context of his grim story, Coleridge thought.
‘There is an ironic and very satisfying ending to Ivan’s history,’ the Count said. ‘And one I particularly relish.’
He swivelled in his chair, cupping his big hands round his right knee, rocking to and fro as he surveyed the company.
‘There is a large ravine not five miles from where we are sitting,’ he continued. ‘It is a wild and lonely place, with a grim reputation and always shunned by the locals. Appropriately, it is known as The Place of the Skull.’
‘A spot where Ivan massacred his enemies,’ put in Coleridge with a flash of intuition.
The Count stared at him with bright eyes.
‘Correct, Professor. It has the same reputation in this province as that of Glencoe in Scotland. Though only some thirty or forty people died there. By contrast, my ancestor killed hundreds. He once drove the population of an entire village into the ravine and slaughtered them to the last man, woman, and child because they had fallen behind with their rents.’
He smiled again as though he had been personally present at the massacre and had discovered something humorous beneath the horror.
Then he went on quickly, as though not wishing his listeners to misunderstand.
‘Forgive me, gentlemen. This is not an amusing story, I agree, but there is poetic justice in it. Ivan was out hunting one day, with only two retainers. A pack of ravening wolves appeared, some thirty in number, and cornered the Count and his two companions in the gorge. His household found only some shreds of clothing, their weapons, and a few pieces of splintered bone.’
He was smiling openly now.
‘Some say that relatives of the dead villagers had gathered a band of peasants together and that they had driven the wolf-pack on to Ivan’s party.’
He rubbed his hands together briskly.