CHAPTER 7: CONFIDENCES
A low dispiriting mist lay over the landscape, cloaking the salient features, and through the darkness of the fir trees which made up much of the surrounding forest, individual trunks stood out blackly like the bars of a cage. That was the impression given to Coleridge as he stood, warm and well-fed, by the windows of a great reception room on an upper floor of the Castle, enjoying the after-breakfast solitude.
His colleagues had dispersed to their rooms, and his host had gone to see his family regarding their plans for the day. The professor was momentarily alone, apart from the dumb majordomo who stood with his arms crossed at the far end of the room, ready to cater to the guest’s whim, but in reality looking as though he were on guard, Coleridge thought.
He watched his own reflection in the pane, occasionally obliterated by the dancing gleams of the fire at the opposite side of the tapestry-hung chamber. The end of his cigar glowed an even red, and he relished its fragrant aroma.
He was glad of the break. There was no noise here, though he could see massive wooden carts negotiating sharp bends that took the road past the Castle. He followed them idly with his eyes for a moment or two; they looked like more gypsy arrivals for the Fair his sledge-driver had spoken of. He hoped he would have an opportunity to visit the Fair during their stay. Coleridge enjoyed such gatherings with their crude vitality and gusto, and the gypsies, particularly the Eastern European variety with their vivid dances and wild stories, were the very essence of folklore.
In his library at home Coleridge had upward of forty thick notebooks stuffed with the data he had amassed during his travels the length and breadth of Europe in recent years. But then his thoughts reverted to his host and his attractive family. Apart from the cloud cast by the death of the woodman yesterday, the visit promised to be a delightful break from the rigours of the Congress.
The Count’s guests were hand-picked, though not all had been Coleridge’s first choices for this private gathering; all were English-speaking and generally congenial spirits. It was true that Coleridge did not know every one of them in person. Some he had met for the first time in the capital, others he had corresponded with.
But they had impressed him favourably with their outward-looking ideas and the depth of their scholarship. Really, this visit to Castle Homolky should have been the highlight of the Hungarian trip. And yet . . .
Coleridge broke off frowningly and turned away from the window, seeking the deep carved chair by the fire. The incident yesterday he had referred to, in his own mind, as a cloud. Yet it was more than that. The Count and his family were obviously troubled. And the guide and the priest, if he remembered correctly, had both spoken of a projected wolf-hunt. He had even agreed to take part himself.
He bit his lip, knocking out the ash from his burning cigar on a massive wrought-iron firedog in the shape of a fiercely snarling wolf. He had not noticed it before and was somewhat startled for a moment; the unknown mediaeval craftsman had fashioned the likeness so skilfully as to give the image an expression of unbridled ferocity.
Coleridge shifted his gaze over to the left-hand side of the fire, ignoring the impassive figure of the white-haired man in the military-style uniform who stood so patiently near the door. The image here was even more interesting: the wolf had something down between his forepaws and, with head lowered, was tearing at it. The effect was so unpleasant that Coleridge felt an involuntary shudder pass through him. Then he was himself again.
He remembered that his guide had referred to the Castle as The House of the Wolf; that was curious in itself, and now here was the wolf-motif on the firedogs. If there were historical precedent, then the wolf-motif should logically appear in the Count’s coat of arms. He got up again and walked over closer to the fireplace. The heat was intense, but he forgot that as he looked up at the carved heraldic shield that occupied the central panel high in the gloom.
It was difficult to make out at that distance, and the professor went back and resumed his chair and his disconnected musings. He had brought some notes for one of his principal papers down from his room, and now he took them out and spread them on his knee, running down the subheadings frowningly as he looked for errors and turned over half-formulated ideas.
He stopped at last, glancing back to the first page with a sharp crackle of paper. He had passed an agreeable few minutes, the only sound being the musical chime of an ancient clock with metal and gilt figures which wheeled about with a faint noise of clockwork before beating out the quarter hours with tiny hammers.
The thing was a quaint conceit but all of a piece with Castle Homolky and the antiquity of their host’s family, Coleridge thought. He frowned again at the paper’s heading, his cigar burning out unheeded in the fingers of his right hand. He stared at the title.
‘On Lycanthropy.’ It seemed a little austere even for such a function as that on which they were engaged. If he knew George Parker, he would have chosen something much more colourful for his opening paper. Coleridge grunted.
He leaned forward, searching in his breast pocket for his pen. He crossed out the heading, conscious of its dry inadequacy. He thought for a moment, his eyes half-closed. Then he rapidly scribbled in a substitution. ‘Some Aspects of the Werewolf Myth.’
He smiled faintly at the conceit, as though he were proposing something greatly daring in such a title. The smile was still curving his lips when there came the click of a door in the silence and someone came out onto the carved wooden balcony which overhung the end of the room and stared down at him.
After a moment or two Coleridge made out that it was the Count’s daughter, Nadia. She gave him a hesitant smile as she caught his eye and then moved over to the head of a small spiral staircase which led down to floor level. Coleridge got up and walked over to meet her. He heard another noise then and, turning, was just in time to see the majordomo disappearing through the far door. The girl had evidently given him some discreet signal, indicating that she wished to talk alone with her guest.
Coleridge awaited the girl at the foot of the stairs with faint trepidation. Firstly, he often felt ill at ease with such young women; he had had some embarrassing experiences with his own students when lecturing in America. The modern young girl was inclined to be intense and romantic and often read subtle implications into Coleridge’s lectures which he had certainly never intended.
He was no prig, and he smiled briefly as the thought swiftly chased itself across his mind. And he was certainly not too old for young women, though he preferred those of more mature years; the early thirties was a sensible age, he believed. Now as he waited, one hand on the carved wooden balustrade, listening to the clattering of the girl’s heavy boots on the treads above, he hoped she would not make him the recipient of some unwanted and unlooked-for confidence.
Coleridge was aware that subtle influences were gathering around him; from attending a highly enjoyable and relaxing private gathering of like-minded savants he might well find himself enmeshed in something far more complicated.
The thought was ridiculous on the surface, but the old adage about coming events and their shadows was much in Coleridge’s mind, though it did not show on his face as he gave Nadia Homolky a welcoming smile as she reached the foot of the spiral.
This morning she wore some sort of masculine hunting costume which showed her full figure to advantage. The effect was delightful, Coleridge thought, and was certainly practical in such a country and in such weather conditions as prevailed outside. She caught the approval in his eyes and smiled again, the mellow light of the overhead lamps making a shimmering mass of her shoulder-length hair.
‘I am glad to find you alone this morning, Professor,’ she said in her clear-minted English, every syllable precise and correct in a way in which native-born English-speakers never enunciate. There was nothing mechanical about it, but it proved to Coleridge that she had had the finest teachers who had not been satisfied until the slightest trace of an Eastern European accent had been eliminated. He guessed that her father had had a good deal to do with her schooling.
The two walked back toward the fireplace, a faint, elusive perfume Coleridge had noted the previous night emanating from the girl’s hair. He supposed it might have been the pomade or whatever it was that young ladies washed or dressed their hair with.
Coleridge had not ventured an answer to her first remark, and now the girl turned her head sideways to give him a penetrating look. He was beginning to find her close proximity a little overpowering, and he moved quickly away to the other side of the fireplace. Nadia Homolky appeared not to have noticed, but the savant was aware that this member of a remarkable family was just as percipient and quick-witted as the rest of them.
‘There was something I wished to discuss with you, Professor,’ she went on, hesitating and resting one slim hand on the back of the big carved chair near the fire. Coleridge waited politely for her to sit before he took the chair opposite, a small occasional table between them.
‘I am at your disposal, Miss Homolky,’ he said, turning his eyes from her face to the details of her costume.
She wore green velveteen breeches tucked into tan riding boots, and they gave her a masculine look that was offset by the decidedly feminine curves of the legs beneath the thick material. A belted corduroy jacket of the same colour circled her trim waist, and a dark brown shirt, open-necked at the fine pillars of her throat, was topped by a red silk scarf which was knotted carelessly, with the art that conceals art, and thrust into the bosom of the shirt where firm breasts swelled beneath the jacket.
Coleridge knew he had been wise to put the table between them; he was not normally an impressionable man, but he knew this girl could have a powerful effect on members of the opposite sex. He had already noted the attraction that she had for the good-looking and enthusiastic young Dr. Raglan.
She moistened her full lips and went on rapidly, keeping her eyes turned down to the polished parquet which dully reflected the dancing flames of the fire.
‘I believe you witnessed an ugly incident which had taken place a short while before you arrived at the Castle?’
Coleridge inclined his head.
‘That is so. Your father seemed rather upset and asked me not to mention it in front of the family.’
The girl made a little dismissive gesture with her right hand, raising her eyes to fix his own.
‘Father has already told us the broad details, Professor. You may speak quite freely with me.’
Coleridge felt faint surprise rising within him, but his manner was noncommittal.
‘I know very little about it, Miss Homolky. I merely saw the remains of this poor fellow being brought back, and I gathered the details from my guide, who spoke to the priest about it.’
The girl nodded, her eyes still on Coleridge’s face.
‘Father Balaz. Yes. He is a good friend and often dines here. I have a particular reason for asking you about the matter. The man who died worked for my father and had been a loyal companion to me during my childhood.’
Her voice trembled a little, but her gaze was steady as she continued to regard her guest.
‘We are very close-knit in these communities, Professor Coleridge, even though we may appear to be separated in station and style of life from the village people. My mother and grandmother were also very upset.’
She broke off and looked almost fiercely into the fire before resuming.
‘There have been many wild stories in circulation. I would be grateful if you could tell me what you saw and heard last night.’
Coleridge shrugged.
‘There is little enough to tell, Miss Homolky.’
He related the events of the previous evening, his eyes turned down toward the parquet where the flames of the fire were reflected. The girl sat with one hand on the arm of the carved chair, her small knuckles showing white where she clutched it. Coleridge told her everything he could remember, leaving out the bloodier detail to spare the girl’s feelings.
There was no sound in the vast apartment except for the faint noise of the fire, and when he at last finished the girl gave a low, vibrant sigh that startled Coleridge by the depth of sorrow in it. His surprise must have shown on his face, for the blonde girl flushed slightly and put up her hand to brush the hair from her eyes.
‘You are a stranger here, Professor,’ she said gently, ‘and can know little of childhood ties forged under the dark and tragic circumstances of such an unfortunate country as mine.’
Coleridge looked her full in the eyes.
‘I can assure you I do understand, my dear young lady,’ he answered softly. ‘I am sorry to be the one to bear such news which can only cause distress to those who knew the man.’
The girl was staring into the fire, as though she had not heard Coleridge’s last remark. She turned back to him again, her jaw set.
‘What do you think about this wolf, Professor? You are an expert on folklore, like Dr. Raglan and your colleagues here.’
‘I?’
The surprise in Coleridge’s voice was unconcealed.
‘What can I say, Miss Homolky? There are many wild superstitions abounding in such lonely and mountainous communities as you have here. I have written much about them, as you know.’
The girl shook her head impatiently.
‘I did not mean that, Professor. Even the soldiers say there is something weird about this wolf – that he is impossible to shoot, possessed of almost supernatural cunning, and so forth.’
Coleridge shook his head.
‘The wolf is a very courageous, enterprising, and cunning animal. It is hardly surprising that a pack-leader such as I have heard described should have gained such a reputation. But I would be extremely doubtful whether the same animal had killed three times. Normally they kill other animals only for food or when cornered.’
The girl’s face now was white.
‘Exactly, Professor. That is what is so strange about it. Dr. Raglan too was sceptical when he came here. But now he agrees with me.’
Coleridge smiled at the girl, conscious of the warm flush spreading across her cheeks.
‘Dr. Raglan is a very clever and highly-thought-of young man in his profession, Miss Homolky. If you will forgive me for saying so, you make a handsome pair. And it is hardly surprising that he would agree with someone so delightful as yourself . . .’
He broke off, conscious that the girl was smiling too. She shook her head violently as though in disagreement, but the smile grew.