CHAPTER 20: DEATH STRIKES AGAIN
‘So!’
Anton’s hooded eyes glared blankly at Coleridge. If he had any opinions on the matter he was not divulging them. He, the Count, and Coleridge sat at one end of the shadowy library, apart from the babble of the refreshment-tables, while Nadia Homolky hovered halfway between the two groups, out of earshot but within call if her father needed her.
The examination had been carried out with the Count’s acting as interpreter, and despite the apparent cumbersomeness of the method it had worked admirably; the colonel seemed to be a man who got at the pith of a matter with short, sharp questions, and his barked, equally concise replies to Homolky’s own queries had advanced the interview in a swift and efficient manner.
Despite the limitations of communication and the language barrier Anton had seemed sympathetic and absorbed, his thick lips drawn into a tight line as he had listened intently to the Count’s version of Coleridge’s story. He had jotted a great many points in a large black notebook he produced from his uniform pocket, and it was now covered with pages of data.
If he had any theories of his own on Coleridge’s experiences and of those of the Count’s daughter, he had kept them to himself; Coleridge was becoming more and more impressed as the minutes went by. Anton had told the professor, through his host, that steps would be taken to patrol the Castle perimeter and that Rakosi had also volunteered the use of his men for that purpose.
But it was obvious Anton had a great deal more on his mind than that, and from time to time he paused, looking blankly in the girl’s direction, while his thick spatulate fingers drummed softly on the knee of his braided uniform trouser-leg. There was a pause in the interview now, and the Count excused himself and got up to refill their coffee cups.
Coleridge, following his progress down the room, saw him stop for a brief word with his daughter. She joined them a few moments later. She was now wearing a pale green dress with a long skirt, cut vaguely on peasant lines and held in with a belt of soft leather. Her hair fell in waves across her face, and Coleridge noticed, as she crossed her legs, that she wore polished leather boots that came halfway up the calf.
She spoke easily with Anton; it was obvious the two were old friends, and it was clear to Coleridge, from the isolated phrase here and there, that the girl was telling her own story to the police chief.
It was evident that the family relied on his discretion, and Coleridge guessed that the colonel, who had served with distinction in the Imperial Army, as he had learned from the girl, had possibly also held diplomatic rank at one time. His rough exterior overlaid a good deal of polish, and Coleridge suspected that he too probably spoke other languages in addition to his own, though English was not one of his accomplishments.
The Count was back again, and Coleridge was content to drop out of the conversation, sipping his coffee, his eyes searching the room for Menlow. He had still not appeared, and Coleridge was beginning to feel worried; he was not in his room, as a servant had been to look for him. He turned his eyes back to the police chief. He shut his notebook with a snap and replaced it in his uniform pocket, thanking the girl graciously as he bent his head over her hand to kiss her fingertips in an affectionate parody of a subject being dismissed by his queen.
The Count’s amused eyes caught Coleridge’s own. Coleridge again glimpsed the tall figure of Shaw, coffee cup in hand, as he talked animatedly with the Countess Irina. He had fallen on the stairs earlier that morning, he had told Coleridge; turning his ankle. It appeared to be even more painful now.
Abercrombie had confirmed this in an apparently casual query Coleridge had put to him later, but a question mark still hovered in his mind that he could not dispel, however much he tried. It would be a startling coincidence, and Coleridge’s thoughts were still darkened and distorted with the image of the naked feet running from the menace of his pistol.
It would be a case of the subject’s literally biting the savant, had a real werewolf descended on their Congress. The idea was absurd, but it continued to dance round the edges of the professor’s troubled mind, like one of those little figures that were sold in the more elaborate toy shops. They hung on wires and were apparently animated by some inner secret life of their own but which in reality came from concealed springs.
Coleridge wished that he could suddenly awake and find himself on the floor of the corridor, suffering from concussion, the whole incident a hallucination engendered by the sharp blow he had given himself by running at full speed upon the beam. But reality often had darker tints and more sharp-edged outlines, and so it was here.
Anton was giving him his hand to shake, indicating that the interview was concluded. They could rely on his discretion, the Count added. A little bell was sounding, clear over the babble of conversation. Coleridge turned back to the lecture platform with a heavy heart to introduce the next speaker.
Coleridge came to himself with a jerk, the thin smattering of applause in his ears. Abercrombie was reaching the end of his dissertation on witchcraft, and he was rounding off his paper in masterly style. There was a positive storm of clapping as he finished, and his eyes caught Coleridge’s with pleasure as the latter signalled his own approval and enthusiasm.
But as the Count took the chair again and invited questions from the general gathering, Coleridge was only half concentrating on the business that had brought them there. Even two intelligent questions from the girl and one from her grandmother failed entirely to arouse him from his lethargy, though he had the tact later to add a few words of commendation to the ladies, which brought a glance of approbation from the Count.
Both women were, in fact, extremely well-read and -versed in these arcane subjects, and under any other circumstances Coleridge would have been completely absorbed. But he could not forget the festering suspicions in his mind, and Menlow’s continued absence, though not commented on openly by his colleagues, was obviously a source of mounting uneasiness to more than one person in the room.
The Count had twice consulted his watch within the last hour, and his wry glance at Coleridge had underlined the fact that he too was puzzled by this apparently unwarrantable breach of good manners.
It was with relief that Homolky brought an end to the session, and the assembly adjourned. In the afternoon there were more major papers to be delivered by experts in their own field, and in the evening, after dinner, a general debate on the subjects of the day, with the Count in the chair. Coleridge took his host aside as everyone started filing out. Two minutes later he was walking up the shadowy staircase toward the guest wing.
He was startled to see the figure of Nadia waiting at the stairhead. Then he guessed she must have come through one of her secret shortcuts. Her face was serious as he joined her at the top. Impulsively, she put her hand on his arm.
‘You’re worried about Dr. Menlow, aren’t you?’
Coleridge nodded.
‘It is not like him to be absent from something so important as the opening sessions of this Congress. I am going to see whether he has returned to his room.’
The girl fell in alongside him as he rounded the angle of the corridor.
‘I am going with you.’
Coleridge took one look at her set, determined face, decided not to utter the sentence which had first sprung to his lips.
‘Very well. But please do as I say.’
‘You think there may be danger?’
The eyes were sparkling now. Coleridge felt the heavy pressure of the Count’s pistol against his ribs as they turned the corner. It was a reminder of the seriousness of the situation.
‘It is possible,’ he said, as lightly as he could. ‘Though he may have gone for a walk and become unwell, of course.’
But he knew the sentence was not worth consideration as soon as he had uttered it. The Count had given specific instructions to everyone on the dangers of venturing out alone. And Menlow would not have done it. He was too alarmed at the weird result of his tests for that. Coleridge would never forget his face and the trembling delivery as he crouched on the shadowy staircase the previous night.
Coleridge could not put from his mind, either, the savage snarl of the great beast as it bounded toward him down the corridor. That was something else stamped indelibly upon his memory.
He was conscious that his fingers were none too steady as he put his hand on the girl’s shoulder, bringing her to a halt. They were quite close to Coleridge’s own room now. He knew that some of his fellow guests were farther down and others were in a second corridor that debouched from the stairhead in a different direction.
It was dim in here with the panelled walls, and there were no windows to break the gloom except, at the far end, up a shadowy stair. Once again Coleridge noticed and smelt the exotic blooms which were arranged in bowls and pewter jugs on chests and tables set along the passage. Botany was not his particular subject, and he did not recognise the flowers. He presumed that Nadia’s mother or perhaps the old lady was responsible for the arrangements.
He knew that in such a great house there would be a huge flower room attached to the conservatories where servants would prepare the arrangements under the skilled direction of the châtelaine. He knew also from his experiences as guest at some of the most prestigious mansions and châteaux of Europe that each arrangement for every room and corridor, every table even, would have its own special order and placing, and if there was one bowl so much as out of its designed position by a fraction, the Count or a member of his family would want to know the reason why.
He glanced ruefully across at the huge wooden beam into which he had driven his shoulder. His injury still gave him an occasional twinge. He would let Abercrombie have a look at it at a convenient moment. He knew that the bruise had a horrendous colouration by now; he preferred not to think of it. When he had examined it, one glance at the green-and-black mottled aspect of his flesh had been enough.
The girl was very close to him, and they stared down the corridor in silence.
‘Is this where it happened?’ she said softly.
Coleridge nodded.
‘Yes.’
Then he added briskly, ‘Somewhere about here.’
He led the way forward again, their footsteps making heavy vibrations across the parquet and setting the beams of the old walls and ceiling creaking. This section of the Castle seemed alive in a way that stone-flagged and solid-walled corridors could never be; there was something about wood and its springiness, even when cut, sawn, and pinned, that made it vibrant, almost breathing, Coleridge felt. But he must not become too fanciful in this atmosphere, though it was easy enough to do so.
The lamp outside the bathroom was still burning, so dark was the passageway, and in fact Coleridge understood it was lit day and night when guests were staying. They went on past Coleridge’s chamber.
‘Dr. Menlow’s room is just at the top of this half flight of stairs,’ the girl said. ‘The first door on the left on the landing.’
Coleridge nodded. His throat felt dry and constricted as it had when he had seen the shadow cross the Weapons Hall door.
‘I think it would be better if you stayed at the top of the stairs while I went in,’ he said.
The girl turned a puzzled face to him.
‘Why? What do you expect to find there?’
Coleridge shook his head.
‘I do not know,’ he said almost helplessly. ‘Nothing, probably. But I would feel happier if you would remain in the corridor. I will leave the door open so that you can see me, and I you.’
The girl smiled faintly.
‘That will be something,’ she said gravely, as though they were old friends who could not bear to lose sight of one another. The thought gave Coleridge comfort in the midst of his bleak imaginings. They went up the short flight quickly, as though it were better to get things over with as swiftly as possible.
The girl paused at the top while the professor went on. His heart was pounding faintly, but the heavy bulk of the pistol gave him a veneer of courage he was far from feeling. The thick oak door was unlocked and opened smoothly to his touch. The room was very similar to his own, though perhaps slightly smaller. Order and precision reigned throughout. It was the atmosphere that always prevailed in establishments where servants were cheap and plentiful.
The counterpane of the bed showed not a ruckle; either the servants had been in and tidied things or Menlow had never slept there. The fire, freshly made-up, burned steadily in the grate. Coleridge saw his face as a faint yellow oval in a long mirror he passed. The panelling was so highly polished it reflected little dancing points from the fire.
Through the lattice windows with their thick edging curtains were the dark sky and the snow falling steadily; little maggots of doubt gnawed inexorably at Coleridge’s soul. He shivered suddenly, forcing himself across the room. There was a great old wooden press in the corner that showed as a darker blur against the darkness of the panelling. There was a ruckling of the carpet near the door that Coleridge did not like.
He had the pistol out as his hand was on the door; little ganglions were quivering in his cheeks and throbbing at his throat. He flung the door open, his nerves excoriated by the harsh jangling of the hinges. There was stale air within, something else too: a pale, shapeless thing that came floating through the tangle of clothing that hung in the gloom.
Coleridge jumped to one side, an incoherent shout forcing itself through his lips. The torn corpse-thing that was Menlow hit the floor with a noise that seemed ripe and unwholesome. There was a lot of blood, and Coleridge had to clench his left hand so hard that he saw his own blood trickling down where his nails had scored the skin.
He heard the girl’s light footsteps run toward the open door, and sanity returned to him.
‘Keep back!’ he shouted, his voice strong and firm now.
He went over with studied casualness and closed the door gently but firmly on her puzzled face.
‘Fetch your father,’ he said through the panel.
He turned to the wardrobe as her footsteps died away along the corridor, but he still held the pistol ready. There was no need, really, for there was nothing else in the room, but he felt better nevertheless.