CHAPTER 30: A MESSAGE FROM RAGLAN
‘It was certainly strange,’ Count Homolky remarked slowly. ‘I have never known such a thing happen before.’
‘It was my fault,’ Coleridge said. ‘If I had not got out of the line it would never have happened. We should have retraced our steps.’
The Count shook his head.
‘I did not mean that, Professor. I meant the behaviour of those wolves. It is totally contrary to the normal.’
He shivered suddenly as though some subtle, chilling wind had passed through the chamber.
‘It seemed almost as though that old legend of Ivan the Bold was about to be reenacted.’
‘The thought had crossed my mind,’ Coleridge said. ‘Did you get the wolf you were after?’
The Count turned down the corners of his mouth.
‘We glimpsed it once or twice, but always it was too cunning and agile for us. We picked off three or four of the biggest and most savage beasts which looked as though they might be potential pack-leaders.’
‘You found the gypsy?’ Coleridge asked.
‘My men conveyed him back to the village. I fear it will not prove a great loss. He was much hated by his own people, and he was certainly cruel to the bear. We will not harm it nor hunt it. And if I know bears it should survive the winter all right.’
He smiled thinly.
‘Poetic justice, you might say. Like Ivan the Bold. Certainly the Gypsy Fair will be a more amiable function without him. The other gypsies are burning his caravan and possessions this evening. It is their ancient custom.’
The two men sat in the great chamber in which they normally took breakfast; it wanted half an hour to dinner, and as they faced one another over a table which held a half-empty whisky bottle, Coleridge felt his courage and tenacity revive.
He had bathed and rested since his return, and so far as he could make out he had received only one small scratch on his right hand, presumably from the claws of one of the wolves trying to get over the top of the boulders into the cave. That was how close they had come.
He had not seen Nadia since his return, but the news of their adventure had been conveyed to her by her father, who had persuaded her to let him rest; they would meet again at dinner. The image of her face was again agreeably before his eyes as he sat on talking to the Count. The two men seemed to be skirting the real hub of the problems involved; Coleridge was content that it should be so for the time being.
Homolky eventually turned his gaze from the heart of the fire.
‘Abercrombie did well. He is a remarkable man.’
‘That is almost an understatement,’ Coleridge assented. ‘I should not have survived except for him.’
The Count tapped with strong fingers on the arms of his chair.
‘It has been a disastrous Congress,’ he said heavily. ‘I should never have invited you all here.’
Coleridge put a sympathetic hand on his host’s arm.
‘It is wrong to think that, Count. Who knows, something like this may have happened if the Congress had not taken place. And our presence may have prevented greater harm so far.’
A strange change had occurred in the Count’s face.
‘I am not quite sure I understand you, Professor. Do I take it you know or suspect something which you have not yet imparted to anyone, even my daughter?’
Coleridge shook his head. In truth he had been somewhat startled at his host’s reaction.
‘It is at the moment only the faintest idea at the back of my mind. If and when it crystallises I will let you know, you may be sure of that.’
Before Homolky could reply, the room door opened and Captain Rakosi came in. He wore an undress uniform of some grey-green material, and Coleridge, who had not seen him since his timely appearance at the gorge, guessed that he had come back directly to the Castle instead of first going to the barracks.
He rose and shook hands gratefully with the young man. He had gathered from the Count that Rakosi had been the first to hear the firing, had perceived that it came from the gorge, and had ordered his troops there. On the way they had come across the Count’s party and had taken him and Raglan up, riding double, until they had reached The Place of the Skull.
‘Most pleased. Most pleased,’ Rakosi repeated over and over in answer to Coleridge’s thanks.
Homolky smilingly waved him down to a seat at his side and poured him a glass of whisky. The three men sat drinking in silence for a few moments. Then Homolky excused himself, and the two men spoke for a while in Hungarian. The Count repeated briefly in English that they were making preparations for a further hunt the following week.
After a few minutes more Coleridge departed and went to his own room to prepare for dinner. He felt drained and exhausted but realised he owed it to his host and the family to put up a casual outward appearance.
He met Nadia Homolky at the door of his room, and it was obvious that she had been waiting anxiously for some time.
The girl stood very close to him, her breath coming fast as though she had been running.
‘I heard what happened,’ she said. ‘What a dreadful experience . . .’
Coleridge shook his head gently, putting his hand on her arm. She wore the same evening dress she had favoured on the night of his arrival at the Castle. It now seemed a very long time ago.
‘It has probably been rather exaggerated in the telling,’ he said. ‘Abercrombie had given a good account of himself, and things were not that desperate.’
The girl flushed deeply.
‘That is not what I heard, John.’
A shadow moved at the end of the corridor. Again Coleridge thought of Raglan and wondered what he represented to the girl and she to him. As though she could read his mind, Nadia beckoned him forward to the room-door.
‘We must talk privately. I have been less than honest with you.’
Coleridge smiled.
‘I find that hard to believe, Nadia.’
The girl brushed the hair back from her eyes in a familiar gesture as he opened the door for her to precede him into the room. He closed and locked it behind them, and then they sat down by the fire. As always, the servants had been in to put the room straight and everything was in immaculate order, the logs burning evenly in the great hearth.
The girl came to the point immediately.
‘What do you know about Dr. Raglan?’
Coleridge shrugged.
‘Very little, actually. Apart from his medical and scholarly attainments, of course. They are on record.’
He paused, choosing his words with care.
‘Except that he seems very attentive to you.’
The girl’s eyes were wide.
‘I do not quite understand what you mean.’
But there was amusement dancing there.
‘Surely you are not jealous? Raglan means nothing to me, you must know that.’
Coleridge found himself stammering with embarrassment. The situation was novel for him, and he realised he had given himself away with his clumsiness.
‘I am sure I did not mean . . .’ he began.
The girl interrupted him, her eyes bright.
‘I know what you meant, John. But Dr. Raglan is the person I wanted to talk to you about.’
She clasped her hands about her knee with a boyish gesture and leaned forward to him.
‘A short while after the main Congress party arrived here, Dr. Raglan sought me out. He requested my help on a certain confidential matter. I thought it strange at the time, but I gave him my promise. It did not seem so then, but it may be vitally important in this black business which surrounds us.’
Coleridge stared at her in silence for a moment.
Then, recollecting himself, he said, ‘This may be very important indeed.’
‘He asked me, in effect, to keep an eye on various members of the Congress and to let him know of any untoward incidents there might be.’
‘Did he give any explanation for this rather extraordinary request?’
‘He convinced me the matter was serious,’ the girl said. ‘Otherwise I would not have complied with his wishes.’
‘What sort of incidents?’ was the professor’s next question.
‘Nothing that I could not have told him without a clear conscience. People’s movements and that sort of thing. Who conferred with whom. Anything that came within my own purview.’
The girl flushed again.
‘I was not in any way acting as a spy, you understand. I would not have stood for that.’
Coleridge was silent for a long moment.
‘You were convinced his motives were good, then?’
Nadia Homolky nodded.
‘He was particularly concerned with my own safety and that of my family. Just as you were, in fact. I could not see any harm in his request.’
Coleridge found the silence profound, save for the very faint crackling of the fire.
‘What does your father say to this?’
The young woman shook her head.
‘He does not know. You are the only other person who does.’
‘And you think this might be to do with the creature which seems to be haunting this castle. If we are to speak bluntly.’
Nadia Homolky picked an imaginary thread from her long skirt and frowned at her companion across the table.
‘We are to speak bluntly. It is too late for us to dissemble with one another now.’
Coleridge put the implications of this aside and ploughed on.
‘You think I ought to have a talk with Raglan? And ask him his true purpose here? Apart from the Congress, I mean?’
The girl bit her lip.
‘Perhaps. You are convinced of his bona fides?’
‘Certainly. He knows his subjects in every aspect.’
Coleridge turned and stared into the heart of the fire.
‘I do not think he means any harm. He certainly distinguished himself when Abercrombie and I were trapped in the cave. But we cannot take anyone at face value. There is a darkness and a horror here, and we have no margin for error. I only wish you could have confided in me sooner.’
The girl gave a helpless little gesture that reminded Coleridge of the first morning they had spoken.
‘It is difficult. I had given my word. And I never break my word if it is humanly possible.’
Coleridge accepted the implied rebuke in silence.
‘I am sure that is so,’ he replied eventually. ‘And it is certainly not my place to criticise your personal conduct.’
The girl got up quickly, giving Coleridge a shy little smile.
‘I shall go to tell Dr. Raglan of our talk now, so that there can be no misconceptions. After that you two gentlemen must make your own accommodations.’
Coleridge joined in her smile as they shook hands formally.
‘Thank you for telling me,’ he said.
The girl left her hand in his a fraction longer than necessary.
‘Until dinner, then.’
Coleridge nodded.
‘Until dinner.’
He stood frowning into the fire until he heard the door softly close behind her. As her footsteps moved away he went over and relocked it. He returned to his seat, his mind revolving further possibilities. The problems at Castle Homolky were apparently endless, and Raglan’s involvement made little sense either.
He must have sat there a long while because when he again looked at his watch it was almost time to go down. He changed rapidly and made hasty preparations, using the basin in his room.
It was only when he went over to the door that he saw a small square envelope had been pushed beneath it. He picked it up cautiously, as though he feared its contents. He read it twice before its import sank in. It was inscribed in stylish, flowing writing that was unfamiliar to him.
It said simply: ‘Professor – Have most urgent information to impart. Please come to my room after dinner, at eleven o’clock. Raglan.’
CHAPTER 31: THE HANGED MAN
Coleridge eased the pistol from his jacket pocket and threw off the safety-catch. It was dark and dim in the corridor here. He had had no time to tell the girl of the meeting at dinner, and it would certainly have been unwise to have spoken to Raglan publicly. If the man was genuine and had knowledge to impart to Coleridge, then his life could be in danger as well as the professor’s.
It wanted but a few minutes to eleven as Coleridge gained the stairhead, and the Castle clock chimed the hour as he paused outside Raglan’s room. He remembered its exact location from the plan Nadia Homolky had prepared for their search of the Castle, and he still had it with him. He had met no servants on the way.
Raglan had excused himself from the coffee room some while before, and Coleridge had slipped out after a discreet interval. He was himself again now. His experiences with Abercrombie had strengthened him, if anything, and he was determined to see the business through until the end. He wondered what his American students would think if they knew he was engaged in a hunt for such a mythical creature as a werewolf in this dark and remote corner of Europe.
Superstition was something that was woven into the very thread of people’s lives here; the reverse side of the religious coin, if one liked. Father Balaz had been at dinner, and one look at his mediaeval saint’s face, which appeared as though it had a century of suffering carved into it, would have been enough to convince the most confirmed sceptic.
Through the great staircase window Coleridge had been startled to see scarlet-and-yellow flame coming from the village below; then he had remembered that the dead gypsy chief’s caravan and all his personal belongings were being burnt according to ancient ritual that evening. He had lingered by the casement for some time, watching a scene of barbaric splendour as the gypsies stood rank on rank on the field of the Winter Fair, their wild chanting rising up toward the Castle on the night wind.
He wondered cynically if the great bear was watching from the warmth and security of some remote cave high above the village. He wished it well, at any event. Then, as the flames flickered and died, and the scarlet splashes, looking like blood against the crusted snow of the housetops of Lugos, faded from sight, he mounted the stairs to his meeting with Raglan, still feeling a great oppression upon his heart.
His mind had been much drawn to Homolky’s tale of the tragic accident involving his mother all those years ago; Raglan would be too young, of course. He was only some thirty years old, and the doctor concerned would be in his forties now, at least. But supposing he had escaped from his asylum in England and had come back for revenge? As fantastic as such a proposition sounded, it was no more bizarre than the idea that a genuine lycanthrope might be roaming the Castle corridors.
Coleridge followed his weird train of thought a stage further as he lingered, still outside Raglan’s door. There was no way of checking, of course; it had all been so long ago and the man might well be dead by now. Even if he lived, there was no method of discovering in which asylum he was now incarcerated.
But such a possibility would solve Coleridge’s greatest problem. Two strands, perhaps? A real wolf killing the people in the village, long before the Congress party arrived; and an insane murderer inside the Castle walls again, returned after twenty years and bent on revenge. Either way, the prospect seemed hardly less dismal. But at least a human being, once identified, could be stopped.
It was a horrifying thought that one of his own colleagues was responsible for Menlow’s death. Several of them were the right age and might fit the young doctor’s physical characteristics. That still did not explain the wolf’s presence in the corridors, but there were many other things also that were unexplainable; if one problem were solved, then more might follow.
Coleridge thrust all such useless speculation from him, took a deep breath, and rapped firmly at Raglan’s door. The sounds made a dull, echoing reverberation in the dim corridor that set the blood racing. A very long silence followed. It was so deep that Coleridge could clearly hear the remorseless ticking of the watch in his pocket.
He knocked again with the same result. Then he tried the door. To his surprise it was unlocked. He pushed it slowly open, whispering Raglan’s name. There was still no response. He put the barrel of the pistol up as he stepped quietly and cautiously into the faintly lit bedroom.
Coleridge sensed danger, yet he could not assign a precise reason for it. The room looked empty and perfectly normal. It was very much like Coleridge’s own; very much, in fact, like all those assigned to the guests. The only differences were that, being a corner room, it had a sort of turret window set into the far angle of the chamber, which must have commanded a magnificent view of Lugos in the daylight. For the rest there was a curious little balcony, reached by a spiral staircase to one side of the handsome carved fireplace.
It was a charming conceit, and for a moment or two Coleridge stood admiring the apartment in the light from the two shaded lamps set on small round tables until he was recalled to the present and his mysterious summons there.
It had evidently been a woman’s room at one time – he was reminded of the old Countess’s predilection for her writing desk on the balcony – and at the other side of the fireplace there was a superb polished spinet cased in rosewood, which was evidently a lady’s instrument, judging by its delicate proportions and floral embellishment in different coloured woods let into the main body of the casing.
Coleridge did not really know why he was taking in all this detail, or why he was concerning his mind with it. Except that it provided a form of distraction under the circumstances of stress in which he found himself. He was becoming resentful, in fact, of the strain; it seemed that he alone had been picked out from all his colleagues to bear this burden while most of them – Abercrombie a notable exception – went their way heedless of the appalling drama that was being played out behind their backs.
It was unfair to think so, Coleridge knew, but it was a measure of the wear his nerves had been subjected to over the past few days. Now he paused, still holding the pistol, feeling rather absurdly self-conscious but at the same time aware of some danger it was difficult to encompass.
Then he had visual evidence of what his nerves had already told him. At the far side of the bed there were some signs of a struggle: a thick bearskin rug had been ruckled and pushed out of position, and the bedspread itself bore marks as though hands had scrabbled at it before relinquishing their hold.
Coleridge felt a cold draught then; he had not noticed it previously because he had been standing near the fire. At first he could not quite place the direction from which it was blowing. He had left the room-door ajar, and now he crept back quietly toward it. Nothing moved in all the dim privacy of the long corridor, in either direction. It was chill there, certainly, but that would not account for this particular draught.
He closed the door behind him and went back into the middle of the room. He was only a few minutes after the time appointed in the note; perhaps Raglan was downstairs and would shortly reappear. As soon as he had formulated the notion Coleridge knew that this could not be so. The urgency of the summons denoted its importance; Raglan would have been here.
Besides, the slight disarrangement of the room had a somewhat sinister import under the circumstances, not only of the present situation but in the entire context of the menacing atmosphere in the Castle.
Still the draught persisted. Coleridge went over and stared at the large stone fireplace. There was some draught from that direction, certainly, but not enough to account for the strong current of air he felt even at the moment. It was icy cold. There might be a window open somewhere, but the notion seemed ridiculous. Or could a pane somehow have been broken?
There were three sets of curtains in the room, covering the heavy leaded casements. Coleridge went round them slowly. The first was to the left of the fireplace, in the far wall. There was nothing amiss there. He replaced the heavy dark red portières and went across to the embrasure near the bed-head. It too was secure. That left only the turret window at the far side of the bed.
Coleridge walked over, still holding the pistol, his throat dry and constricted. He pulled the curtaining back. The draught was certainly coming from here, but at first he could not see anything wrong.
It was dark in this corner of the chamber, and he had to stoop before he saw that the right-hand wing of the lower casement was open. Unlike most of them, it opened outward, and he was slow to see the reason for its gaping darkness. He twice tried to close it to cut off the draught but found on each occasion that something gently resisted the pressure.
Bending lower still he found a rope had been tied at floor level to one of the heavy uprights of the four-poster bed. It was lying parallel with the dark boards, which was why he had not noticed it before. He could feel with his fingertips that it was under heavy pressure. The far end went out the window and down the wall.
Coleridge opened the segment and pushed his head out, oblivious of the cold wind which leapt at him. The whole of Lugos was below, bathed in unearthly beauty in its coating of snow and ice, for the moon was out, riding high and clear of the jagged clouds. By its misty light he could see the body of Raglan hanging halfway down the turret, his legs dangling above the awful abyss. His eyes seemed to look imploringly at Coleridge.
His blackened tongue started from the rictus of the mouth like some monstrous sac, and the rope was about his neck. One hand was trapped beneath it as though he had tried to grasp it to haul himself back up to salvation.