A Parish Darker: A Victorian Suspense Novella (2 page)

Before long, we had set back out on the trail with only a half-hour remaining to the castle. The driver wished to be home before dark, but with dusk settling in as a blanket over the remaining parchment of sunlight, that became increasingly unlikely.

Situated in the romantic crest of the Austrian countryside, the Castle Savanberg was among the most remarkable sights a man’s eyes could behold. Save for the narrow path leading up the gradual incline to the gates that culminated in a strategic hilltop abode, the estate was surrounded on all sides by expansive, unending forest. The deep green of the leaves hanging from the trees served in stark contrast to the parched vanilla of the castle’s stone exterior. Lit torches illuminated the gate through which we passed and hung to each side of the sturdy ornamental entrance that appeared as if it could withstand the strength of a hundred men.

Appearing at times a stronghold and others a summer home, the castle was one of modest size but immense value, as both a formative capital investment and an architectural milestone. To one side was an empty but proper stable for horses that did not appear to have seen recent use. The grounds, while not faultlessly well-kept, exhibited a sort of minimal overgrowth on the windows that nonetheless suggested a certain order or discipline to their upkeep. The silence greeting the ears would be one to rival deafness, with no other dwellings or indications of civilization within eye-or-earshot.

Disembarking from the carriage, I parted with a generous gratuity for the driver and waved him on. My sole possessions at the time were the clothes on my back and the briefcase containing my change of wardrobe and parcel for our client. My gray overcoat and hat of similar makeup had become a darker shade with the dust accumulated on the trip, though I hoped the Baron would not hold it against me.

As I approached the door, I turned to see the carriage in which I had arrived steadily melding with the dark at the bottom of the hill. I confess I had an unsettling feeling even then—be it the darkness or the lack of human presence, a foreboding sense began to entangle in my mind and stomach as I placed my bag next to the door and began to knock.

The stealthy flickers of embers sparking from the torches on either side of the entryway were the only sounds to be heard, until in one split moment the locks holding the door together had been undone with the incessant ringing of metal scarring. When the double doors split into two separate halves, emerging from between them was the host whose attention I had come to request.

“Welcome, my dear guest, to the Castle Savanberg!” Each word was accentuated with the tone and delivery one would expect only from nobility. Though punctuated with a studied mastery of the language, hints of a man who spoke primarily German were evident in the gaps between his words.

“I confess I did not expect you until deeper into the night! You must forgive my tardiness in welcoming you inside. Please, do come here. A chill has set in. Hints of a dire winter to come, surely, would you not say?”

I would soon recognize this anecdotal manner of speech a steadfast characteristic of my host. His barbed cheekbones, pointed as daggers, dared not flinch at even the broadest expression.

“Baron von Savanberg, I presume? It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” I said as I offered my hand with my briefcase in tow. “My name is Edwin Ramsett. I’ve come to—“

No sooner had I started my introduction did the Baron take my hand and lead me further inside. “Never fear, I know all of which you are to say. I am indeed Baron Lechner von Savanberg, the resident of this castle and your host for this evening. We have all the world’s time with which to share pleasantries, so please do me the honor of making yourself at home.”

There was hastiness to everything that the Baron did apart from his dress. Even the slightest wrinkle in his intricate suits seemed intentional. His broad shoulders upheld his dark waistcoat that I learned quickly was characteristic for him. Save for a maroon vest underneath and its fitted golden buttons, the Baron nearly exclusively donned the darkest of colors, most frequently charcoal black.

As I removed my coat with his aid, the Baron took my arm and led me from the entrance to the stairwell just adjacent the door. “Come, my friend! There is time for everything in this world except for the waste of it. It is not often, you see, that I have a guest. We shall feast! We shall talk about everything over dinner. I have prepared a roast, one that is the very best in Europe—nay, the world. It is one whose recipe you shall wish to steal.”

His enthusiasm was amusing, soliciting a laugh from me as he spoke so excitedly. “I assure you, Baron, I wouldn’t dare—“

“No but I insist, you see! I insist that you will. It is the very best.”

A man of the Baron’s size—quite thin but more than average in height—would not be one from which to expect such a friendly disposition. Of his most remarkable traits was his whisky black hair that gave way to speckles of gray flakes that had no doubt come with age. This characteristic was likewise present on his thick brows that curved well along his considerable forehead and just to the sides of each eye.

Despite his strong vestige and capable and swift movements, I estimated the Baron to be in his late-forties. The rings under his eyes painted a picture all their own, of a man that seldom slept more than necessary and instead spent much time in dim light. The grayness in his thin eyes made it difficult to discern much, though they were well settled between the thin arches of his nose.

Soon we were upon the stairwell, ascending its dozen steps and upon the second floor of the castle. The structure had doubtlessly seen a number of residents in its age that numbered at least in the centuries.

“This castle is magnificent,” I said to the Baron as we entered the upper hallway. “I say I have never visited such a place in my life.”

“It is lovely, yes?” came my host, hand upon my shoulder as we moved along. “The age has no doubt occurred to you already. The base structure was constructed sometime in the twelfth century as a stronghold during the Investiture uprising. The high ground was deemed suitable for a strategic foothold and so it was. After serving many purposes, from getaways to dignitaries from all ends of Europe and even briefly as a prison for the criminally untenable, it has seen its share of human history. The castle came into my family three generations prior, having been restored and repurposed in all possible respects.”

I admired the large paintings that provided scale to the pillars throughout the long hall outside of each room as we passed. “A place of this size, you surely do not tend to it alone?”

“There is help that I require occasionally, but for the most part it is only myself tasked with its upkeep,” said Baron von Savanberg as he gently led me into what was meant to be a dining room but appeared in many ways to be a banquet hall.

The long table suitable for seating at least two dozen men and women was impeccably furnished—not one utensil was even a centimeter out of place with those to either of its sides. Though it could have served a dinner to a royal family without contest, the table was to only have two diners that night.

“This castle is so large that even I have not uncovered all of its many secrets,” said the Baron, pulling out for me my seat and motioning for me to join him. “As a boy I found my way into what you may call… a cave in this language? Just out there in the garden. It may well have been forged by one of the former incarcerated prisoners in an escape attempt, no?”

The Baron’s speech grew more elegant as he spoke. I came to see a particular skill of his was that of learning with great adeptness. Should I speak in a certain manner that even in the slightest way came in a more naturalistic tone or inflection by comparison, he would swiftly adapt and take it on as his own.

It was not only his dress and speech that were impressive, however. So, too, was his skill within the kitchen. As I seated myself and undid the tablecloth onto my lap, the Baron removed the cover on our main course for the evening: a roast of undeniable delicacy, one so appeasing in sight and smell that even the eyes watered for it alongside the mouth. The Baron seated himself at the head of the table, inviting me to sit just to his right.

As a host, I had no complaints with Baron von Savanberg and his penchant for limitless amenities and courtesy. When my drink would be the slightest bit empty, no sooner would his hand be reaching for the bottle. Even in the few occasions I had visited the highest class of restaurant in London, such service was a rarity.

“Baron, I must say that you are the most gracious host I have had the pleasure of meeting,” I said while taking a drink of the exquisite champagne he had fashioned for the occasion. “I am surprised, with your sophistication and good manner, that there is not a Mrs. von Savanberg joining us.”

The Baron titled his own glass, swirling its contents, as he paused and stared ahead. “There are things that you will no doubt understand with time, Edwin. Time is the great instructor, the great teacher. To an old man like myself, though, it is also the most relentless of enemies.”

My host lifted his glass to meet mine, offering a toast. “May we both live long and healthy, my friend.”

Baron Lechner von Savanberg’s words came with genuine determination and enthusiasm. Though we had only known each other such a short while, I could not deny the unmistakable sense of camaraderie we shared even in those early hours.

The castle’s long halls forged of stone were not crafted with acoustics in mind. Soon after finishing our meal, the Baron continued the tour of his vast home, all during which rain pattered against the candle-lit window panes with incessant frequency.

Following dinner was a very brief moment for assorting my things in the room set aside for my stay. The chief fixture inside that immediately caught the eye was a bed far too large for one occupant—one made from the finest oak and clothed in the most illustrious and ornate fabrics. A pair of windows faced away from the doorway, with the usual amenities of closet, chair, desk, and drawers that one may expect from a guestroom. A well-kept and soundly-equipped toiletry area was likewise included.

No sooner had I finished my unpacking and surveying of my quarters did the Baron return to continue familiarizing me with his home. We viewed several rooms, omitting some choice others that the Baron mentioned being under renovation. It was then that he suggested visiting his library, which he assured would not disappoint.

An avid reader since boyhood, I have seen many an archive with my own eyes, but none as enviable as that of the one found downstairs in the west wing of Castle Savanberg. All was impeccably organized, with works in Spanish, English, German, Russian, Japanese, Chinese and other tongues occupying the wall with shelves split between two levels. A spiral staircase waited at the end of the room that led upward to the second level of the library, with a variety of furniture waiting on the bottom level near a paneled window that spanned the full vertical space of the large room. Couches waited opposite one another on a Persian rug, with three chairs of equal worth and comfort completing a semi-circle—all with complete view of the expansive garden outside the window.

As I scanned the vast collection, I said to the Baron as he followed behind me, hands crossed behind his back, “This is no doubt the most impressive private collection I have ever seen. You have here so many classic works in so many languages. Surely you are not well-spoken in all of them?”

“And never a translation!” said he with some degree of pride.

Admittedly skeptical, I scanned the many rows of the first wall to confirm. “It does appear you are right, Baron. You are not saying you learn a language before reading its translations?”

“Never mind a translation,” said the Baron. “These books you see are for learning. No translation will ever convey all that is intended by a man’s words as he and those of his ilk understand them. Approximating the meaning of a word or a phrase in a foreign language will always be merely that—an approximation.”