CHAPTER 18: NADIA
Coleridge drained his second cup of coffee and sat staring moodily at the icy landscape spread out far below his window. He had had only four hours’ sleep, and his arm still throbbed.
He felt incredibly tired, but his mind was clear. He had the opening lecture of the Congress to deliver in less than two hours, and he was determined to do justice to his theme.
The professor smiled grimly to himself. The subject of his lecture was extremely apposite at this moment. The Count had had his breakfast served in his room, and he sat at a table near the roaring fire, well-being gradually seeping back into his body. Following his conversation with his host a few hours earlier he had deliberately blanked off his mind, forcing himself into exhausted sleep.
Now his brain was incredibly busy, but he had gone over all the ground at length; there was no sense in retracing the situation until he had further data to work on.
He wanted to see Menlow before they went in for the opening session. He had sworn him to secrecy, but he needed to make sure that his colleague did not inadvertently spread the story about the Castle. It would do no good and merely alarm the servants. As the Count had indicated, no-one had apparently heard anything untoward the previous night; the bearded attendant could be relied upon for discretion, and he had not spoken to anyone other than the Count regarding the night’s events.
Anton would have to go about his inquiries with circumspection. The Count had already been in to see Coleridge at the same time the breakfast was served; he had communicated these facts to his guest when they were once again alone. Coleridge found it incredible that no-one should have heard his pistol shot and his fall, apart from the man descending the stairs. But there it was.
The guest wing was as isolated as that for the Count’s own family; the walls of the bedrooms were several feet thick, as Coleridge had already observed, and as Homolky had himself pointed out. If everyone had been fast asleep – and it had been in the middle of the night – then the incident, however shattering for Coleridge, might well have passed unnoticed. It was only one more strange facet of this wild and romantic household.
He replaced the cup in his saucer with a faint clink that seemed to erode the edges of the brooding silence. His immediate problem was what to say to the girl. The Count had promised he would not speak to her before Coleridge had had the opportunity to do so. And he would, of course, be absolutely forthright and tell her exactly what he had told her father.
That was the most urgent necessity. There was deadly danger here, and there was now no point in minimising it, though he would not speak of what he had finally seen before he had passed out. Coleridge’s conscience was already nagging him about the problem of his colleagues. They would have to be told at some stage, and it was possible that they also were in some danger while this thing was prowling around. But there was no sense in alarming the inhabitants of the Castle unnecessarily.
And as his host had stressed, he did not want his wife, and particularly his aged mother, worried at the situation. That was something they would have to meet in due course. And there was another problem, too, in the fantastic circumstances of the whole business: Coleridge had no desire to be ridiculed by his scientific colleagues who might merely suspect him of romantically embellishing his own particular subject.
The thing had appeared to Coleridge and the girl; the Count and his personal servant were the only other people privy to the facts. It was best to leave it at that. There was Menlow, of course. He was a strong-minded person and might have ideas of his own about the situation. Coleridge glanced at his silver-cased watch. He still had an hour and a half yet before he was due to deliver his lecture. He walked over toward the bedside table, reloaded the revolver, and replaced the weapon in his pocket.
He came back and poured himself a third cup of coffee, conscious that thin rays of sunlight were staining the window casement. With the combined warmth of the fire and the coffee his spirits were rising as his physical condition was restored.
Coleridge’s mind still shied away from the supernatural theory, but his scientific training reinforced the unlikeliness of an ordinary wolf prowling the corridors, apart from the impossibility of such an animal turning door-handles and trying to gain entry. Wolves, moreover, were normally shy and timid creatures, despite their reputation for ferocity, and they tended to move and hunt in packs. What would one be doing within the Castle, leaving aside the problem of its method of entry?
Again, no-one had seen the animal except Coleridge; it had then completely disappeared, and, certainly from the discreet inquiries the Count had been able to make early in the morning, none of the servants or the guests had seen or heard anything untoward. Menlow’s microscope tests posited another theory, and Coleridge was finding it grim and unpalatable, however much it favoured his own particular subject and the whole realm of folklore in which he and his colleagues were so immersed. He would not speak of that until a more suitable moment.
There had been no blood in the corridor; Coleridge had looked before anyone was about. He was sure he had at least grazed the creature’s leg, and it might have been limping and losing blood. But there was nothing on the parquet or in the corridor adjoining, not even a few cut hairs that would have given Coleridge some comfort in the nonsupernatural direction.
Though he had found the hole his bullet had made; it had lodged at the foot of a massive beam at the end of the corridor, about six inches from the floor, which strengthened Coleridge’s impression that he had wounded the beast’s leg.
Even that left out of account the image of those naked feet running from the scene just before he had lost consciousness. That was the most incontrovertible truth and an aspect that he had thrust firmly to the back of his thoughts. But its reality could not be denied, and its ugliness was growing on him as the minutes ticked by on the face of his watch.
There was a faint tapping at the door now, and Coleridge rose with some relief. It was not good to be alone with these gnawing problems.
‘Good morning, Professor.’
It was Nadia Homolky who stood there, and one glance at Coleridge’s face had told her that her worst fears had been realised.
The girl was silent for a long while as Coleridge finished speaking. Her brown eyes regarded him steadily. Her face had become more anxious as his narrative developed, and she moved forward impulsively and put her small hand over the back of his own.
‘I am so sorry I got you involved in this.’
Coleridge shook his head.
‘This morning’s incident would have happened in any case.’
And then, as she looked at him with a faint air of disbelief, he went on, ‘I am certain of that.’
Nadia Homolky expelled her breath in a long shuddering sigh and stirred restlessly in the big padded fireside chair next to Coleridge. A bar of light coming in from the casement behind them seemed to strike a radiance from her hair. Once again Coleridge was vividly aware of this young woman’s physical attraction, but he was no longer discomfited by it. The strange situation in which they found themselves had made them accomplices.
‘I am glad you told Father,’ she said at last, reluctantly removing her fingers from his. ‘It is better so.’
She put up her hand to her hair, her head on one side as she regarded Coleridge.
‘He will not tell Mother and Grandmother?’
The professor shook his head.
‘He assured me of that.’
He leaned forward, looking at her steadily.
‘You have not asked me the most important question.’
The girl smiled faintly, though there was still concern at the back of her eyes.
‘I am waiting for you to tell me what you think. We are not dealing with a real wolf, are we? Like me, you think there is something supernatural behind it.’
Coleridge sat back in his chair. Fatigue had fallen away from him and the ache in his left shoulder was disappearing, though there was massive bruising of the skin, as he had already ascertained. He would get Abercrombie to look at it if there were any medical complications.
‘You know what lycanthropy is, I suppose?’
The girl smiled again, genuinely this time. The shadows had temporarily cleared from her face.
‘There are two strands, are there not? At least, according to Father. One is a sort of disease. The other, the stuff of legend in which men have the power to change themselves into beasts?’
Coleridge nodded.
‘Well and succinctly put. I have devoted several volumes to the same basic propositions.’
He was silent for a moment or two as though collecting his thoughts. Then he went on with a rush.
‘I do not believe this is a time for scholarly dissertations. I will put things as briefly as I can. And then we must simply follow events as they occur.’
A sudden flash of alarm passed across Nadia Homolky’s face.
‘You think something else may happen, then?’
Coleridge’s expression was grave.
‘There must be a purpose behind these manifestations. No, I do not think this thing has finished. On the contrary, I think it is just beginning.’
He went on before she could say anything further.
‘There is a significant difference between the two legends relating to lycanthropy and that of vampirism. The former was believed by the ancients to be a disease which might afflict anyone among them, causing them to behave like ravening beasts. They would discard their clothing, fur would grow on their bodies and limbs, and when the moon was full they would roam the night, seeking victims whom they would savage and destroy in the manner of wolves.’
The girl shivered, but her eyes were fixed unwaveringly on Coleridge’s face.
‘I have heard Father speak of such things. But it is physically impossible, is it not, for such a transformation to take place.’
Coleridge nodded.
‘Scientifically speaking, yes. But there are many instances in ancient records of a medical condition which was akin to such phenomena. The victims were impelled to discard their clothing, howled and behaved like beasts, and ran about uncontrollably in the light of the moon.’
Coleridge paused, a heavy sigh escaping him. He smiled wryly.
‘But I am beginning to sound like my public persona. I trust I am not boring you.’
Nadia Homolky shook her head.
‘Far from it, Professor. Father said the difference between the two conditions of the vampire and the werewolf was that the vampire was a natural evil spirit which exulted in roaming the earth and drinking the blood of the living. But the werewolf was merely an unfortunate wretch visited by some weird and little-known disease which compelled him to do things against his nature. He had no wish to do evil and was thus a victim.’
Coleridge inclined his head, enthusiasm flashing in his eyes.
‘Your father is perfectly correct in those basic tenets, though the pedant might argue with such a simplistic interpretation.’
He smiled briefly at the girl’s expression.
‘There is a good deal more to lycanthropy and the legends which have accreted round it than that, of course. And the whole apparatus which guards against the vampire is useless in the case of the werewolf. The only basic trait they have in common is that both are confined to the night, creatures of the dark hours. And it was widely believed that the silver bullet was the only antidote to the lycanthrope, the wolf-victim, though that is not strictly correct.’
He consulted his watch, noting that he still had a little time.
‘You should attend my opening lecture, Miss Homolky. You may not enjoy it, but you would at least learn a good deal more about this thing.’
‘I would like to, Professor, if my father has no objection.’
Coleridge shrugged.
‘I do not see why he should. But if you wish, I will speak to him about it before the Congress begins.’
The girl had a hesitant expression, and she bit her lip as though reluctant to go on.
‘Please understand me, Professor. I was horrified when you told me of your experiences just now . . .’
‘But you were relieved that they had not been confined to you alone.’
The girl nodded, catching her breath. She seemed to be listening for something that Coleridge could not hear. Something stirring in the long corridor outside? Or was the guest becoming fanciful, and was she really more concerned in case her father came back and found them tête-à-tête by the fire in Coleridge’s bedroom?
Once again Coleridge felt an inward embarrassment. Then his resolve strengthened. This business was far too dangerous and important to let ordinary conventions stand in the way. And Raglan must think as he liked.
‘I have still not heard your scientific explanation for what happened last night,’ the girl went on.
‘I have none. I hope and trust there will be some quite logical dénouement. But I know what I saw. It was no hallucination. There was a great wolf in the corridor. I fired at it and struck it a slight blow on the off hindpaw.’
He looked at Nadia Homolky grimly.
‘It was something I shall never forget.’
‘But what shall we do?’ the girl persisted.
Coleridge’s voice was firm and decisive.
‘Take precautions, my dear young lady. Any other questions must wait.’
He got up and walked over toward the door.
‘And now, permit me to escort you to the Congress’s opening session.’
CHAPTER 19: THE LIMPING MAN
‘Therefore, to the man of science there remains one inescapable conclusion. That this wolf is a true werewolf and lives on through the ages in myth and legend.’
Coleridge finished to a thin ripple of applause. He bowed, feeling satisfaction that the paper was a good one and that he had delivered it to the best of his ability. He reached forward and sipped at the glass of water on the lectern in front of him.
‘And now, gentlemen, if there are any questions I shall be pleased to answer them.’
There was no lacking in response. Abercrombie was the first, as the speaker had thought he might be. Beneath his bluff exterior was a fine, shrewd brain. He would be quick to find a chink in the armour of any unprepared speaker, but Coleridge had done his groundwork well; it was not like him to prepare a sloppy paper, and he was convinced that his reasoning was as accurate as it could be in the light of modern knowledge.
The rest of the area was lost in shadowy speculation, and he had been careful not to exceed his given bounds. He need not have been worried. Abercrombie was courteous and polite. He really wanted to know what was the true medical basis for the holocaust of werewolf trials in mediaeval times, and Coleridge was able to amplify his reply until it became a miniature lecture in itself. He was grateful to Abercrombie for opening out the discussion like this, and he intended to do justice to the subject.
He caught the girl’s expression and it was approving, though her eyes held him in a way he would have found uncomfortable if he had persisted in looking at her. She was sitting next to Colonel Anton; he was in full uniform, which meant he was there on official business, and the Star of Krasnia threw off golden glints as he shifted in his seat.
Coleridge knew the colonel would want to question him as soon as the lecture was over. He was glad now that he had said nothing to the Count or the girl about the feet he had seen running away immediately after he had struck himself upon the buttress.
It may have been, in any event, a momentary effect of the blow. A sort of hallucination engendered by slight concussion, though he really could not convince himself of this. And it did not help Coleridge in explaining the other events of the night, or the trying of the door. He knew the animal was immediately outside. Therefore, no other human being would have been near. And he had definitely seen the handle turning. The girl had had a similar experience.
It was not mass hysteria or anything of that sort. Both Coleridge’s nature and that of Nadia Homolky did not lie in those directions. And Menlow’s test had been conclusive.
Coleridge caught Homolky’s eye as he glanced about the big room they were using as a lecture hall. His smooth, practised sentences went on in reasoned, coherent periods, his voice resonant and confident as it carried to the farthest corner of the chamber, while his brain continued to revolve imponderables. The Count was chairman, of course; it was a courtesy the host appreciated, and he had the agenda and timetable for every day and notes on each speaker giving information he would need as he introduced them.
Homolky had a satisfied look on his face; things were going well. It had been a good start to the Congress, and it appeared, both to him and to Coleridge himself, as though this smaller gathering would be as successful as the major Congress just concluded in Pest.
Coleridge’s gaze passed on, taking in the pale oval faces scattered about, gradually resolving them into detailed features. He had not been surprised to see the old Countess there; she looked like one of those rather austere oil paintings set about the panelled walls of the Castle, but there was no doubt about her interest in the subjects being debated or her knowledge of his work.
Though the presence of Sylva Homolky, sitting next to her mother-in-law, had been a little more unexpected. Coleridge was encouraged by this gracious manifestation of the interest shown by the host family in their deliberations, and the speaker was pleased to see the amusement and appreciation on the younger Countess’s face at some of the more esoteric and erudite jokes with which he had sprinkled his text.
But there was a vague doubt nagging at Coleridge’s mind; it had been there for some time, but he could not at first give it conscious recognition. He was bringing his comments to a rapid close now, and he again raked the hall. The stage was brilliantly lit with the rest of the room somewhat in shadow, which was normal for such events, of course, and at first he could not see any visible reason for his unease.
Then he had it. Menlow did not appear to be there. He went round the semicircle of faces again. There was Sullivan, still in his archaic suit of plus-fours; George Parker, his black beard abristle and his eyes alight with enthusiasm; Raglan, who was sitting at a discreet distance from Nadia but eyeing her appreciatively from time to time.
Pools of darker space were scattered between the figures, which stood out almost like tableaux in a museum. Shaw was there too, sitting at the edge of the gathering, toward the front. He did not know why he had not noticed Menlow’s absence earlier, or why it had not been mentioned before the lecture began. Coleridge hoped there was nothing wrong; judging by the gathering in Pest it was not like him to miss out on such an important event as the opening session. He would ask during the intermission following the questions; perhaps Menlow was ill and confined to his room. Homolky would send someone to inquire.
And then there was the problem of Anton. The Chief of Police would obviously wish to question Coleridge on his experiences of the previous night. That was likely to be a long and tedious business, as Anton knew little English and the Count would have to translate. Coleridge had already decided to keep his own counsel about what he had seen just before consciousness faded, even so far as Anton was concerned. It would add nothing to the situation except an element of fantasy, which was certainly not needed at the present time.
He should have kept a cooler head, but he had been unwell and off balance when he had confided in his host. After all, there was great danger overhanging the family if this thing was prowling the corridors. It had manifested itself on three separate occasions if the shadow seen by Coleridge at the door of the Weapons Hall could be counted.
What the police chief would make of it all he did not know; he and the girl could only speak the truth, after all. The official had impressed him as being a man of great courage and probity, and he would obviously know the folkways of his own country at least as well as a scholar whose knowledge, however assiduously gleaned from long contact with European peasants, could only be superficial by comparison.
Another question was coming up now, this time from Shaw. It was a good one; a clever one with a trick flaw in it, and he saw the admiration and pleasure in Shaw’s eyes as the speaker gently twisted it and handed it back to him. There was a further ripple of applause, in which the girl joined.
It was a well-argued piece of sophistry, based on the turning of skins; the judiciary in the Middle Ages had the delightful habit – founded on the premise that the werewolf in daylight wore his skin reversed, the fur on the inside and the human skin on the outer – of skinning the werewolf-victim alive in order to discover if this were so.
The victim invariably died, which, in the manner of Cotton Mather and the witch-trials, merely proved his guilt; Shaw had disguised the barb of his question with a neat double-entendre, but Coleridge had parried it equally deftly. He felt a certain dry satisfaction as he turned to a question by the Count himself. But as he argued his point with the smoothness engendered of long practice, he was still disturbed by the absence of Menlow.
His vacant place among the leather chairs was like a gap in an otherwise well-ordered row of perfect teeth in a friend’s mouth, taken for granted but shockingly self-evident when one was missing. He wondered too what Anton would say about the use of the pistol in the Castle corridor. There was a faint flicker of amusement on Coleridge’s face now; he hardly thought it would matter.
It was the Count’s pistol; it had been fired on his own private property, and at a moment when a guest had been in danger of his life from a savage beast. He could still see the redness of the creature’s eyes as he finished answering Homolky’s question. And it was not as though they were in England or America where a firearm permit might be required.
It was to reduce the situation to a simple domestic process hinging on a bureaucratic whim as to whether he had been licensed to fire the shot or not, and he savoured the quiet joke for a moment or two longer. Something moving at the back of the library caught his eye, and he heard the faint squeak of boots on the polished floor.
For a moment he thought it was Menlow, and relief flooded through him; then he saw he was mistaken, for as the figure emerged from the shadowy distance into the light of the lamps he saw that it was Rakosi. The young captain paused apologetically and then slipped into a vacant chair next to Nadia Homolky, giving her a hesitant smile.
Coleridge brought his remarks to a close with a professional flourish and waited; apparently there were no more questions. He moved mechanically over toward the blackboard, erasing his statistics and the carefully drawn graph. It was something they all did; a sign of good manners. Literally leaving a clean slate for the next man to lecture.
He stood to one side of the platform, watching the girl, only half-listening to the Count’s words of thanks; he was roused by the strength of the applause. Apparently his modest efforts had met with success. The Count was by his side, shaking his hand. The audience was rising now, moving over to the side-tables where the dumb majordomo and the huge black-bearded servant stood ready to dispense coffee and cognac.
Coleridge was aware of thick snow drifting down past the high-up window against a dreary sky that was almost the colour of soot. The bleakness of the vista reminded him of his promise to the wolf-hunters on the morrow. He hoped they would not have to rise at some unearthly hour.
The Count was smiling, ushering his guest from the platform toward the refreshment-tables. As Coleridge moved over, following the others, he saw Shaw coming from his place in the auditorium. He walked with difficulty, and the professor saw that he was limping heavily on the right foot.