CHAPTER 32: INTO THE ABYSS
Coleridge found Abercrombie drinking whisky and soda in the small side-room they had used for taking coffee after dinner. The professor walked like an automaton, his legs stiff and seeming to carry him of their own volition. His brain felt anaesthetised and remote from his bodily functions. But he must have appeared fairly normal because his colleague looked up, merely smiled, and waved him to a leather armchair at his side.
As he sank down and the doctor poured him a whisky from the decanter on the table, Coleridge felt the pressure of the revolver in his inner jacket pocket. He was glad that he had remembered to put it away; he would have looked absurd coming through the Castle corridors holding it in the firing position, though there had been few people about.
He took the crystal tumbler Abercrombie passed him and drank. He felt better immediately. He looked at the big man opposite, noting the scar that creased his forehead. He was immersed in a bundle of newspapers, apparently seeing nothing amiss on his companion’s face.
‘Would you care to see
The Times
? These came in for me this afternoon. They are a fortnight old, but it does help to keep one in touch with civilisation.’
Coleridge took the proffered paper politely, left it unfolded at his side as he sipped his whisky. He had shut Raglan’s room-door. He had no wish to alarm the Castle. But he could not confront the scene again without the presence of someone like Abercrombie. And there was the problem of the Count and his family . . .
This was the end of the Congress, of course; it was the end of many things, come to that. Coleridge shut his mind to the mass of bewildering complications that this new death had opened up before him. His mind felt frozen; he would think later. Tomorrow, perhaps. He wondered if Anton was staying in the Castle tonight. He would be glad to leave everything in that officer’s capable hands.
He stared at the calm face of Abercrombie. It was incredible that he should be so unruffled, particularly in view of the fact that he also had been through two horrifying experiences since his arrival. The big man looked up, smiling pleasantly.
‘Hungary is not the only place in which bizarre things happen.’
‘What do you mean?’ the professor forced out.
‘There is a fascinating criminal report here,’ Abercrombie went on. ‘A young man called Clyde Beatty, a private detective, discovered a cemetery near Woking in which bullion robbers from London had hidden vast amounts of stolen gold bars. Imagine!’
He tapped the newspaper, his face alight with surprise and interest.
‘The stolen articles hidden in the coffins of the dead and transported by rail from Waterloo-road to Brookwood Cemetery direct and under the unsuspecting noses of the police. There is enough material here for a Gothic novel in itself!’
‘Indeed,’ said Coleridge politely.
He had hardly taken in what his companion was saying, did not really know where to begin in relating his own bad news. He hoped for an opportunity, but a sort of paralysis of the soul had seized him. He appeared isolated in his chair, mechanically sipping the whisky and soda Abercrombie had poured for him, his gaze fixed blankly upon his companion but not hearing his conversation or receiving the import of his words.
He wondered vaguely if he were ill. Certainly his experiences since arriving at the Castle were enough to unhinge any man; that and the knowledge which he carried within him. For he alone seemed to have received all the facts, as though he were a cornucopia in reverse, into which all the evil thoughts and impressions of this ancient house were poured, soaking and staining their way into his very soul.
His inmost thoughts now seemed opaque, filtered through muslin. The room in which he sat was somehow all squeezed up, the angle of the fireplace in tight perspective that seemed to bend and distort before compressing itself into an impossibly small area of space. As Coleridge watched it actually came to a point.
He heard a noise then. That too seemed to come from the far distance. He sat watching stupidly as his shattered glass and the remains of its contents dispersed across the floor. Abercrombie looked at him sharply. His face appeared immense as he bent concernedly toward his companion.
‘Are you ill? Is there anything I can do?’
Coleridge meant to shake his head, but his neck muscles felt paralysed. His words were enunciated as a strangled croak.
‘Raglan. He is dead.’
It seemed to take him an immense amount of time to get out the simple sentence. Abercrombie rose to his feet, his face alarmed.
‘Are you sure?’
He patted the other’s hand solicitously, as though he were speaking to a child.
‘Don’t worry yourself. Stay there. I will go and look.’
He went away, leaving Coleridge to stare at the distorted room before him.
Then the old Countess appeared. She leaned over him, her eyes narrowed to slits.
‘There are wolves – and wolves, Professor,’ she said mournfully.
She sighed. Presently she went away in turn, and he was alone once more.
He was conscious of no sound except the faint murmur of his own breathing and the thump of his heart. Perspiration cascaded down into his eyes. Abercrombie was away for more than a year.
When he reappeared his expression was puzzled, noncommittal. He bent until his mouth was close to Coleridge’s ear.
‘I have been to Raglan’s room. Everything is in order. There was no-one there.’
Coleridge gave a gurgling gasp. Abercrombie’s alarmed face disappeared as he pitched forward in a dead faint.
CHAPTER 33: THE WOLF STRIKES AGAIN
Coleridge saw the girl’s face first, slowly composing itself from the darkness. Her expression was concerned, anxious. Next to her the Count, equally grave. It was the second time Coleridge had fainted in a few days, and he felt ridiculous and somehow diminished. His throat ached, and there was a vile taste in his mouth. He supposed that Abercrombie had given him something to bring him round, though he was not there.
As recollection flooded back in, he half lifted himself on the pillow, found the girl holding his hand.
‘You are all right,’ the Count said very deliberately. ‘Just a faint, the doctor thought. I have taken the liberty of having you brought to your own room by my servants.’
He glanced at his watch.
‘You have been unconscious only half an hour.’
The girl cast a defiant look at her father, then remarked bluntly,
‘What is this about Dr. Raglan? Abercrombie said you told him he was dead.’
‘That is perfectly true.’
Coleridge sipped gratefully at the tumbler of cold water the girl held out to him. Nothing had ever tasted better. His brain was clear now.
‘He was hanging out the window by a rope attached to the leg of his bed. I saw him as distinctly as I see you.’
The Count and Nadia exchanged glances; their import was not lost on the man in the bed.
‘There was nothing there when Dr. Abercrombie looked,’ the Count said. ‘I looked myself. But Dr. Raglan is certainly missing.’
He gave a helpless shrug.
‘We will do what we can, of course, but things are hopeless tonight. There is a snowstorm raging outside. From my experience it may last for days.’
‘Raglan was hanging outside the room, with the rope through the window,’ Coleridge persisted. ‘Someone must have removed the body.’
The Count bit his lip, his eyes turned full upon Coleridge.
‘You may well be right, Professor. The Congress must be called off, of course. And in the morning, when you feel better, you must tell everyone why. There is a murderer amongst us. He must be caught.’
He drummed with strong fingers on the edge of the counterpane, avoiding his daughter’s eye.
‘You will tell your wife and mother, then?’ Coleridge said.
Homolky nodded.
‘I must. Things are too serious for anything but absolute truth. I will leave it to you, so far as your colleagues are concerned. Both Rakosi and Anton have accepted my hospitality for the night, in view of the weather.’
He paused.
‘Whatever the weather I must be present at the church tomorrow afternoon. It is my duty.’
Coleridge had forgotten the funeral service for the dead villager. They would be holding a mass memorial for the werewolf victims in the Castle chapel soon if things went on in this way, Coleridge reflected cynically.
Two of his colleagues were already dead. He felt in his bones that there would be more; the thing was reaching insane proportions. He could not make head nor tail of it, but there was a terrible logic behind the tragedies.
‘I was thinking about that sad story you told me,’ Coleridge said.
He was talking to the Count but looking at Nadia. She kept tight hold of his hand, her lips compressed into a stubborn line.
‘Oh?’
There was nothing but polite interest in the host’s voice now. The sadness of the ascetic face beneath the shock of white hair was markedly pronounced. At that moment he almost resembled the saintlike features of Father Balaz, Coleridge thought.
‘About your mother’s accident. And that young doctor . . .’
The Count nodded stiffly.
‘I had not thought about him for years until we spoke. Dr. Sanders. The unfortunate confined in the asylum.’
‘You do not think he may have come back? For revenge? The insane are said to be possessed of immense strength . . .’
The Count’s jaw dropped, and there was something like fear in his eyes as he stared at the man in the bed. The girl looked helplessly from Coleridge to her father.
‘He swore vengeance, you said,’ Coleridge continued. ‘Supposing he has broken out and come here to destroy your family? Human or demon, he has supernatural cunning. I know nothing of the wolf which has been ravaging the village. But I have twice seen a wolf within the Castle. And two people have been murdered; one of them for the knowledge he possessed. The second wished to see me, and he also may have intended to pass on some information. He did not commit suicide, despite the indications. He was murdered before he could tell me his secret.’
The Count’s face was ashen and he spoke in a hollow voice, like a mechanical doll Coleridge had once seen in an arcade.
‘Then we are all in the most appalling danger.’
Coleridge looked at the Count’s pistol which someone had placed on his bedside table.
‘As you value your life, see that the doors of both guests and family are locked tonight,’ he said slowly. ‘In the morning we will take counsel.’
The Count nodded as though he were slowly awakening from a trance.
‘I will leave my men on guard outside the door, Professor. They will remain there all night. You have only to ring if you need assistance.’
Coleridge nodded. He felt weak and drained. The last thing he remembered was Nadia bending over him with a reassuring smile.
He struggled awake, aware of pressure on his shoulder. A hideous, distorted face was pressed up close to his own. He reached out desperately for the pistol, felt his wrist gripped in a clutch of steel. As the fog of sleep cleared from his mind he saw that it was the dumb majordomo, who had come to shake him awake. The mutilated red stump of his tongue rolled round his mouth in the lamplight.
He had thrown on his braided uniform over his night-clothes, and Coleridge could now see that it was concern and fear that were agitating him, not malice. The other gripped him lightly by the arm and indicated that he was to follow. Coleridge rolled out of bed quickly, throwing on his trousers and jacket over his night-things; he put on his socks and shoes as the other made imploring noises deep in his throat.
He left his shoes unlaced, hoping that he would not trip on the steep stairs of the Castle. He saw by his watch that it was three a.m. as he went over to the lamp to get the pistol. It was fully loaded, and he still had some cartridges in his jacket pocket. He felt well now but parched with thirst, and he paused just long enough to pour a glass of water from the bedside carafe.
Then he was outside in the dim corridor, stepping over the outstretched legs of the sleeping servants and trying to keep up with the headlong rush of the majordomo as he headed for the upper floors.
Coleridge was wide awake, painfully aware that he was having difficulty in breathing as he ran clumsily up the worn stone steps that ascended in a steep spiral to the next storey. He had never been here before; this must be another private stair to the family’s own apartments. The majordomo could not speak to him, of course, but he must have been sent by the Count to rouse Coleridge.
At three in the morning it was obviously urgent, perhaps terrible indeed, to disturb one who was currently regarded as a semi-invalid. He held out the pistol in his left hand, as the stairway was dim and he hoped to be warned in this way of any obstruction; he did not want a repetition of his earlier experience. Once he caught his right shoe on the outstretched lace of the other foot and almost fell headlong.
But his heart was doing its work properly and he felt fit and alert, if a little blown, when they came at length to the end of the spiral and were in a well-lit corridor with parquet underfoot. The majordomo went straight on, not looking back, holding a lamp in his left hand that he had just picked up from a small occasional table standing by the wall.
The horror of Raglan’s death burst into Coleridge’s brain like a bombshell. Perhaps he had been found, and that was why the majordomo had been sent to summon him to the Count’s presence. Coleridge did not know the way here, but the dumb man led him unerringly onward, up two more short flights of stairs, where an atmosphere of brooding oppression seemed to obtain.
Coleridge could not have said why; it seemed, as they came along these dim corridors, as though some sort of blight or pollution had settled upon his soul. The tall man with grey hair grunted again and beckoned him forward to where an open door gaped blackly.
Lamps burned from within, casting a pale, unearthly sheen on everything. Coleridge went to cross toward the entry, but before he could do so he heard a terrible snarling noise. In contrast to his earlier experiences he was ice-cold now, throwing off the safety-catch of the pistol.
A monstrous shadow passed across the lamps, and then some vile thing was in the doorway, jaws slavering, foetid breath foul and stinking in Coleridge’s nostrils. He fired as it sprang, was put off his aim. The majordomo gave a strangled cry and was hurled to the floor; the beast went by so close it appeared to knock him down.
Coleridge turned, got off another shot which tore splinters from the wall panelling; he could not see whether he had hit the wolf. It moved so quickly it was merely a fleeting shadow on the far wall. A faint groan from the room beyond sent pencils of fear crawling along Coleridge’s nerves.
He helped the majordomo up, the barrel of the revolver trembling. The man appeared uninjured. The whites of his eyes showed as he stared at his companion with blanched features. Coleridge was within the room now, took in the tangled and disarranged sheets of the bed. His nerves jumped again as a white hand sought his own.
The Countess Sylva materialised from the darkness. Blood dripped from the torn shoulder of her silk dressing-gown, her hair hung over her eyes, and the dark blue pupils stared from chalk-white features. She collapsed into Coleridge’s arms as he half carried her into the corridor and sat her down on a chair.
‘You are safe now,’ he said.
The majordomo, with great presence of mind, had darted into the bedroom; he came back with a bottle of some spirit and a crystal goblet. The Countess’s white teeth danced on the rim of the glass as she drank.
Coleridge was already examining the torn flesh of her shoulder; she appeared to have had a remarkable escape. So far as he could see, the damage was limited to fairly superficial injuries, as though the beast’s claws had raked across her once or twice.
He waited until the liquor had done its work. She clung to him convulsively as he sent the majordomo back into the bedroom to find a clean towel. He made a compress and fixed it securely over the wound, the padded shoulder of the dressing-gown holding it in position.
The Countess was calmer, and she made an effort to speak.
‘What has happened?’ was Coleridge’s first question.
Countess Sylva turned dazed eyes from the majordomo’s face to his own. The former was drinking now to steady his own nerves, at Coleridge’s suggestion.
‘There was a knocking at the door earlier. My husband thought it was one of the servants. He found no-one there.’
Her breathing was becoming agitated again, and her eyes glanced wildly about the dim corridor like a hunted animal. Coleridge gave the servant the pistol and sent him to stand in the middle of the corridor, in case the animal came back. But he knew in his heart that they had seen the last of it tonight.
‘He felt there was something wrong,’ the Countess continued. ‘He went out with his revolver, telling me to lock the door. A few minutes ago I heard three taps and opened, thinking it to be my husband.’
Her lips were a pure white colour as she stared at Coleridge.
‘The wolf came in,’ she said simply.
A scalding fear came over Coleridge then; he guessed it was delayed shock, and he sought the bottle on the corridor table. His nerve steadied, his arm still round the dark-haired woman’s shoulder, he tried to make sense of this new development.
‘You have not seen your husband since?’
Countess Sylva shook her cloudy black hair round her face.
‘The Castle is vast, as you understand. I do not know where he is, except that he was lured away.’
‘You were fortunate, madame. How did you manage to avoid serious injury?’
The voice was so low the professor had to bend forward to hear what his hostess was saying.
‘I fell behind a big armchair, which took the full force of the beast’s attack. I hung on to it and dragged it to a corner of the room, staying behind it. The animal’s claws were able to reach my shoulder only. Then you arrived . . .’
Her eyes clouded over.
‘For God’s sake, what is this curse on our house, Professor?’
Coleridge felt inadequate and impotent in the face of something so black and monstrous that it seemed to inhibit the will. He stood up quickly, throwing indecision from him.
‘Your mother-in-law’s room. Where is it?’
The Countess pointed dumbly down the misty corridor. Coleridge wished he did not have to go, but there was no-one else and his Boston upbringing had instilled in him a strong sense of duty. He took the pistol from the manservant, reaching down a sabre from the panelled wall.
‘Look after madame.’
He gently ran his fingers along the frightened woman’s jawline.
‘Be brave, Countess. Your husband will soon be here.’
He moved away from the brightness of the lamplight into an inky pool of darkness, feeling his courage ebb with the fading of the light. His feet made hardly any noise on the parquet, he was moving so slowly, but his fingers were firm on the butt of the pistol. He did not think there would be anything there; the beast had done whatever it set out to do.
He no longer thought of it as a fact of natural history. Either it was of supernatural origin, able to open doors and turn handles as well as knock on wood, or there was, as some in the Castle had surmised, a human agent behind this using an animal as its nemesis, which was almost as fantastic a possibility.
But beyond Coleridge’s present fear and his presence in this darkened corridor was the image of a young, strong face in the silver-framed photograph on the Countess’s desk on the upstairs gallery.
Had that young Dr. Sanders indeed returned from his asylum, as a man in his forties or early fifties, burning with vengeance? Or had a werewolf brushed paths with man, as the legends and stories in Coleridge’s ancient books opined? Was there, in fact, any sense at all in this holocaust of death and suffering in which Coleridge was embroiled?