This would not do. Coleridge decided against following the beast farther into the vault; whatever it was, it would have to come to him. He was comparatively safe here if his nerve did not crack, and he had the revolver. He did not think it would come too far into the light, but it was cunning, incredibly cunning, as he had already sensed.
And there was another fear added to the smell of danger; the fear that Abercrombie might already be dead. He seemed to have fallen into vast, unknowable depths when he crashed through the rotted timbers of the door, and there had been no sound of life from him since.
Coleridge held the lantern carefully and moved over sideways into the next aisle. Something moved with him at the far end; there were two red eyes now, glaring at him balefully from the darkness. It was not imagination, but as soon as he brought the pistol barrel up, they disappeared. The beast was moving with him across the width of the cellar, almost as if it had divined his intention and was keeping pace with him. The professor again felt the sweat of fear descending into his eyes, momentarily blurring his vision.
The light given off by the dark-lantern seemed pitifully small compared to the area he had to cover, and he wished they had had the benefit of large oil lamps in here, such as those that illuminated the staircase above. He cast a quick glance back over his shoulder, toward the steps, and saw another vast shadow pass rapidly across the wall, before disappearing.
He moved over desperately to the side of the cellar. Surely there could not be two beasts. His situation would be desperate indeed if that were so. But at least here he would have his back to the wall. He cast a quick glance to the right, saw something slink between the casks at the far limit of the lamp’s range. He fired quickly, the muzzle flash of the pistol seeming to burn a huge hole in the darkness.
He heard the bullet spang off one of the stone buttresses while the long shape flattened itself to the floor before flickering behind a pillar. The entire vault seemed filled with powder-smoke which stung Coleridge’s eyes, while the echo went on for a long time.
He glanced swiftly to his left, saw that the shadow near the staircase had disappeared. Instead there came another light scuffle from that direction. He moved back up toward the stairs.
While he was thus occupied, something launched itself from the top of one of the casks. Coleridge fired instinctively, the two shots seeming to split the top of his head. The beast’s jaws snapped shut, and it was so close he could smell the stink of its feral breath. He cowered back instinctively, losing his footing, and in a moment of blind panic fell over, upsetting the lamp but not extinguishing it.
The great body passed him, disappearing behind the barrels with a dreadful worrying noise. Coleridge stumbled to his feet. He still held the pistol, but he was dusty and very frightened. His limbs felt like water. Another charge like this and he would be finished. He picked up the lamp and put it down on top of a barrel, where it gave a good light.
The black hole left by the shattered door was at his left now, and Coleridge got across the intervening space quickly, the comforting solidity of the wall at his back. He heard footsteps then, running down the passage leading to the small flight of stairs above him.
Then the girl’s voice, calling his name. Relief flooded through Coleridge, erased in an instant by the hollow, murmuring groan that echoed in his ears, disarming his spirit and reverberating round the vault like some supernatural symbol of doom.
CHAPTER 25: THE WATCHER IN THE SHADOW
‘Keep back!’
Coleridge’s voice came out in a strangled croak, but he had command of his faculties now. The girl ignored him. She came flying down the steps, her hair in a tangled mane about her, holding a cutlass in her right hand and the glimmering oil lamp in the other. It would have been an absurd, wildly piratical sight under any other circumstances, but to Coleridge her presence spelt salvation.
Her eyes raked his face as she came within the shelter of his arms. He was left with the brief vision of the grey patch on the huge wolf’s back; it had disappeared now, and with its absence a semblance of normality seeped back into the cellar.
‘You might have been killed,’ Coleridge said somewhat incoherently.
Nadia Homolky gave him a strained smile.
‘So might you,’ she said. ‘That seemed equally important to me.’
Coleridge had no time to discuss the matter, and the implication of her words did not soak into his consciousness until much later.
‘Where did you get that weapon? And why did you follow us?’
‘From a rack on the wall on my way through. It seemed as though it might be an effective wolf deterrent. As to the second question, I thought you might need help.’
Coleridge gave her a grim smile.
‘Even so you were lucky, Nadia. The beast was only a few yards away as you came down the stairs.’
He let go of her, conscious of the faint perfume that emanated from her hair. It was the same elusive fragrance that he had noted on the night of his arrival at the Castle. He was already over at the dark space which gaped in the wall. By the light of the smaller lantern he saw that the rough stone sloped downward, the fragments of the broken door partly blocking it. Beyond was something dark and crumpled.
‘Bring your lantern, quickly!’
The girl came over, curiosity in her eyes. By the stronger light the two made out the huddled form of Abercrombie; he was lying with his hands on a jagged projection in the rock, a thin trickle of blood on his forehead. The scene resembled the entrance to an oubliette, and once again Coleridge remembered the tale of the Count’s ancestral dungeon.
‘Is he dead?’ Nadia Homolky whispered, casting worried glances about her.
Coleridge was mindful of the need for vigilance; at any moment the wolf might come back for another attack, but their overriding duty was to Abercrombie, to get him from that dreadful place and to see what aid could be given him.
He shook his head.
‘I do not know. But even if he is still alive he may be in terrible danger. We do not know where this tunnel leads. And it may get steeper farther down.’
The girl set her lips in a stubborn line.
‘Let me go. I am lighter than you. And I saw some rope at the top of the steps.’
Before he could stop her she had run back up with a brittle clacking of heels on the stone slabs, mindless of the wild beast which might be watching them a short distance away. She returned with a thick coil of new rope, flinging the hair back from her eyes as she smiled at her companion. Her presence gave Coleridge renewed vigour. He was at the opening now, fancied he saw a faint flicker of movement from the recumbent figure below. Then the groan he had already heard. His heart leapt. Abercrombie was still alive.
All thoughts of the wolf were erased. He realised that the second shadow he had seen at the top of the steps was that of the girl moving cautiously down the passage, waiting until she was certain of the situation before rushing to assist him.
A great wave of affection for her passed across him. She was already elbowing him aside, handing him one end of the rope. He secured it round his right wrist, leaning close to the opening. The girl was sliding cautiously inward, and he had her hand with his left. As soon as she had gone some little way down she reached for the fragments of the broken door and handed them up to him, piece by piece.
‘This must be one of the old entrances to the dungeons Father had bricked up,’ she said. ‘How did the accident happen?’
‘The wooden handrail gave way,’ Coleridge whispered.
He had the absurd notion that they were speaking in low voices to avoid waking Abercrombie. But in reality it was to prevent rousing the wolf which could be lurking at the top of the barrel racks in the shadowy gloom behind.
It would be an appalling moment of danger if the beast attacked now, and Coleridge quickly put the pistol down on the stone sill of the embrasure, close to hand. He threw the last of the broken board to the floor, relishing the sound it made. The vulnerable feeling in the small of his back and neck muscles had passed.
He guessed then that the beast had fled up the staircase after the failure of its attack. It could have made its way through the open courtyards and into the shelter of the forest by now. He reached for the girl’s lamp with his disengaged hand, shone the light down into the dark tunnel before him. A musty, foetid smell came from it, and once again he admired Nadia’s courage. She was already securing the end of the thick coil round Abercrombie’s massive chest, knotting and reknotting it. Deep stertorous breathing was audible from him now.
Coleridge’s hopes rose. Perhaps his colleague was only stunned. The girl was crawling back up. He had her firmly by the hand, could feel her trembling by the pressure on his fingertips.
‘I think he will be all right,’ she whispered, her lips close to Coleridge’s face. ‘We must have these dangerous embrasures bricked up. I will tell Father about it.’
She lowered herself to the floor, reaching for the lamp. Coleridge was already taking up the strain on the rope and then pulling with all his strength at Abercrombie’s recumbent figure. The man’s dead weight was enormous, and he could again feel pain in his left arm. The girl came to help him, and they pulled silently together, the breath sobbing in their throats.
Abercrombie’s unconscious body made a low slithering noise that echoed and reechoed in the dark tunnel, and little fragments of stone and dust fell clicking and clattering to what seemed like vast depths below the doctor. He had had a narrow escape indeed. As he and Nadia Homolky toiled in close intimacy, the girl’s warm breath on his cheek, Coleridge had a vivid impression of the jeering face of Ivan the Bold.
The wolf’s presence in the vault could have almost been the malignant return of his degraded spirit from the vault below. The fancy was absurd, yet Coleridge could not shake it from his clouded mind. That was the impression the sinister events at the Castle had upon him, and he was beginning to find it harder and harder to wrench himself free from them.
‘One more pull!’ Nadia gasped, and then, just when the strain was becoming intolerable, Abercrombie’s bearded head appeared in the opening like some battered and bloodied image of a Norse god following an epic battle. He groaned again and opened his eyes slightly, hooding them against the light from the lantern.
‘You are safe now,’ Coleridge said. ‘Lie still while we try to work your shoulders free.’
It was ten minutes more before the two of them had the semi-conscious form of the doctor on the cellar floor. Coleridge had tied the rope tautly to the nearest barrel rack, as he was afraid his colleague might yet slip back into the yawning darkness of the oubliette. When he was safe he quickly ran his hands over the collapsed figure. He did not appear to have any broken bones. He was probably suffering from slight concussion and shock.
Nadia had found the doctor’s pistol, which had fallen to the floor, and she held it ready in case the wolf returned, but all was silent now in the yellow light of the two lamps.
‘I will stay here and guard him,’ Coleridge whispered. ‘We shall need help to get him up.’
In the event there was no need, for a few moments later there came the welcome clatter of feet on the stairs and then the Count and his servants to see what had happened to his missing guests.
‘I owe you my life, Professor!’
Duncan Abercrombie, his head bandaged and his voice weak, nevertheless stretched out his fingers from his bed-sheets and grasped Coleridge warmly by the hand. The latter smiled, despite the gravity of the situation, because there was still a good deal of strength there.
As he had suspected, Abercrombie was an extremely durable individual, and his layman’s diagnosis of momentary concussion and shock had been correct.
The Count’s own physician, Dr. Istvan, had just left with an admonition to Abercrombie to rest a few days, but the big Scot had expressed his intention of getting up for the wolf-hunt in the morning, though Coleridge and the Count had voiced their doubts at this.
‘I have a personal score to settle with that brute,’ said Abercrombie wryly. ‘If the beast had disabled you or prevented you from coming to my rescue, I might have slid to my death in that oubliette.’
‘You must not forget Miss Homolky’s part in all this,’ the professor reminded him. ‘She rescued both of us, in effect.’
Abercrombie nodded, looking at his companion shrewdly.
‘She is a girl of spirit, Professor,’ he said quickly. ‘And she is obviously greatly attracted to you.’
He laughed weakly.
‘And you are an eligible bachelor, are you not?’
In spite of himself Coleridge felt a flush rising to his cheek. He had not seen things in that light, but it was obvious Abercrombie had sensed a great deal that he, in his more obtuse fashion, had not noticed.
The two men now were alone. After the alarm and excitement in the Castle and all the resultant confusion, Abercrombie had been conveyed to his own room where he had recovered full consciousness a short while afterward. A large fire burned on the hearth, and the black-bearded servant was stationed just outside the door, in earshot of the bell on the doctor’s bedside table, in case he should need anything.
A discreet search had been made of the Castle, and despite the short while remaining before darkness, Rakosi and a few men from his troop had carried out a brief reconnoitre of the area surrounding the Castle. It might have been thought traces of the wolf’s passage would have been visible in the fresh snowfall, but they had reported nothing, though it was extremely difficult to make out such tracks in the falling dusk.
Homolky, Nadia, and the doctor’s colleagues had all visited the invalid to express their regrets, but Coleridge had lingered for some indefinable reason; a strong bond had been forming during the past hours between the professor and the massive Scot, and both seemed to gain confidence and energy from the other.
Coleridge looked at his silver-cased watch; there were still two more lectures due to be delivered this evening. The Congress went on, in spite of everything. Abercrombie had wished to be there but had finally seen that it would be ridiculous for him to make the effort in his present physical condition. Coleridge had promised to bring him a précis of the proceedings afterward, if he were not asleep.
Now he rose to take his leave, hovering solicitously.
‘Is there anything you need? A magazine, copies of the proceedings?’
A spark of amusement flickered in the doctor’s eyes.
‘No, thanks. I have everything I need here. Including whisky.’
He waved his hand feebly to encompass the bedside table.
‘Goodnight, then.’
‘Goodnight. And thank you again.’
Coleridge closed the heavy oak door behind him, nodding to the servant who sat on a carved chair just to the right of the entry. He walked down the short stair, deep in thought, subconsciously noting the subtle perfume of the flowers in the bowls placed on the tables at intervals. He met Nadia at the stairhead. She had obviously been waiting for him.
Her eyes searched his face.
‘How is the patient?’
‘Much better. Thanks to you.’
She shrugged.
‘I only did what anyone would have done.’
Coleridge shook his head.
‘You risked your life. And you went down into that dreadful place, not knowing if the doctor were alive or dead. I would say your conduct was exceptional. Your father must be proud of you.’
It was dark in the corridor, despite the lamps, but Coleridge noticed the rise in colour of the girl’s cheeks.
Aware of her confusion, he went on quickly.
‘But you wished to see me, obviously.’
Nadia Homolky nodded, her eyes very bright and not at all troubled now.
‘Yes. We all seem to be in the same situation, which is rather reassuring somehow.’
Coleridge knew what she meant, and he did not reply but fell into step with her as they walked down the corridor in the direction of his own room; content to be
en rapport
with this remarkable young woman. A shadow moved away at the end of the passage, and for a moment his heart missed a beat until he remembered that it was probably nothing more than one of the servants who had been deputed by the Count to watch over the safety of the guests following this latest alarm.
Coleridge was aware then of the double pressure against his ribs. He had forgotten to give back Abercrombie the revolver the Count had loaned him. He drew it out and proffered it to the girl, but first making sure the safety-catch was on.
‘I would feel better if you would keep this by your bed. I presume you know how to use it? I will get another from your father for Dr. Abercrombie.’
The girl took the pistol with the faintest smile hovering at the corners of her mouth.
‘I know how to use it, John. Ask Father. We have a private shooting range here. The countryside round about is far from safe, especially in winter.’
It was the first time the girl had used Coleridge’s Christian name, and its effect on her lips struck him forcibly. He was thrown off balance for a moment or two. Though she was not looking directly at him, Nadia was obviously studying his reaction, as if she had dared too much and was not certain of his response.
Coleridge passed quickly on to firmer ground by ignoring the situation. They continued walking back down the corridor.
‘We must talk,’ he said quickly.
She nodded, looking at him directly.
‘You are going on the wolf-hunt tomorrow?’
‘I have given my promise.’
‘I would like to come too, but Father has forbidden it.’
‘He is a very sensible man,’ Coleridge told her. ‘And you have had enough excitement for one weekend.’