Count Homolky had paused now, and he flung open the thick oak door in front of them to reveal a distinctive but comfortable chamber in which nothing had been spared for the guest’s needs. A blazing fire burned in the stone hearth; the panelled walls shone with wax polish; there were thick rugs on the parquet floor; and the yellow light from silver-based lamps set about on tables and the mantel shone on the carved bed, the thick tapestry curtains, and the decanter and glasses set out at the bedside table.
The Count made a subtle gesture with his shoulder, indicating another pool of yellow light farther down the corridor.
‘The bathroom is just along the passage, Professor. Lights burn there all night.’
He gave the guest his hand to shake in a grave, formal manner. Coleridge saw that his luggage was arranged neatly at the foot of the bed. He had carried his briefcase up with him, and now he transferred it to his left hand as he said goodnight to the Count.
‘I will leave you to unpack. Breakfast is at half-past eight, and if you ring the bell one of my staff will escort you down.’
Coleridge went on into the room, closing the door behind him, listening to his host’s footsteps dying out along the corridor. He went to the window and drew back the thick drapery. The light of the moon and the reflections from the snow created a fairy-tale illustration of Lugos; and the tangled turrets, walls, and cupolas spread out below Coleridge to the courtyards made his iced-cake simile more valid than ever.
He stared over toward the dark fir forests on the horizon, clear-cut in the brilliant light of the moon. Was it his imagination or had there come a faint, insistent howling that hung briefly in the icy air before being dissipated by the wind?
A vivid impression of the mangled thing on the stretcher came unbidden and unwanted into Coleridge’s mind. He shivered suddenly, drew the thick curtain against the night, and stepped back into the warmth of the room.
CHAPTER 6: FICTION OR FACT?
Coleridge was woken from a dreamless sleep the following morning by a soft-footed manservant who brought hot water and towels. After he had washed and dressed he pressed the bell, which brought the dumb majordomo to his room. It was just half-past eight and still pitch-dark when he descended to breakfast.
The meal was served in a vast chamber warmed by a roaring fire and whose pine-panelled walls were burdened with barbaric relics of the chase: boars’ heads with glaring eyes, deer with vast spreads of antler, and even the heads of wolves, whose tarnished plaques proclaimed that they had been slain in the eighteenth century.
Coleridge was the first at table, and so he had time to study his surroundings while girls in traditional peasant costume bustled about, first bringing scalding hot coffee in a silver pot before the main breakfast which would presumably be served when the host and the rest of the guests arrived.
Coleridge inferred that the room had once been the Castle armoury in ancient times. Apart from its huge size, it had a flagged floor made up of gigantic slabs of stone which were now wax-polished and covered with occasional rugs of what looked like bear-skin, and there were racks of weapons at ground-level with shields and other lethal-looking implements, including axes and pikes, spread out in artistic patterns on the walls.
They were high up here, and though there would have been a magnificent view down to the rest of the Castle and the village in broad daylight, the enormous windows that broke the massive stone walls at the professor’s back were still covered by thick tapestry curtains, no doubt in order to keep out the draught.
Despite all the evidence of the rude arts of the mediaeval huntsman spread about him, the room was not without comfort, and Coleridge revelled in the rich taste of the coffee, agreeably aromatic on the tongue; the snow-white linen of the tablecloth; the glinting silver at each placing; and the gratifying warmth that the stone fireplace threw out from the opposite wall.
He had been there only a few minutes, tasting the coffee, his eyes occasionally catching those of the deferential servants who passed and repassed, or staring into the roseate flames of the fire with his mind agreeably blank of any specific thought, when there came the muffled sound of footsteps from the flagged corridor outside the room door.
It was still only ten minutes to nine, and familiar faces were advancing down the length of the room toward him. His host was in the forefront, leading a party of Coleridge’s fellow delegates from the Congress, but there was no sign of the women for the moment. Coleridge made as though to rise from the table, but Homolky pressed him back.
‘You are early abroad, Professor, particularly after your late night and journeyings of yesterday. I trust my people have made you comfortable?’
‘Everything is admirable, Count.’
Coleridge acknowledged the smiling greetings of the six other men as they ranged themselves round one end of the huge refectory table, their host dropping into a rudely carved wooden chair which had a boar’s-head motif engraved on its back.
‘The ladies are not joining us, then?’
It was the black-bearded man nearest to Coleridge, reaching out for the silver-plated coffeepot. The servants were coming back en masse now, bearing the main breakfast.
The Count shrugged. He wore a hunting jacket with deep-flapped pockets this morning, and a red silk handkerchief made a splash of scarlet as it peeped from his breast pocket.
‘Alas, no. They are taking breakfast in their rooms and begged to be excused.’
Coleridge himself was wearing a thick tweed country suit, and as he leaned back in his chair and waited for the meal to be served he felt a good deal more comfortable and at his ease than yesterday.
A young man with a clipped black moustache, who was sitting almost opposite Coleridge, caught the other’s eye and made a wry face. Coleridge, with one of his moments of deep penetration, could not resist a slightly waspish comment.
‘Delightful ladies, are they not?’
The Count quietly watched the two men as he reached forward to raise the cover on one of the big dishes a servant-girl had placed in front of him. A familiar and agreeable aroma permeated the room.
‘Indeed,’ the dark-haired man mumbled.
‘Particularly Miss Homolky,’ put in George Parker, the black-bearded man sitting to Coleridge’s right.
The Count dabbed fastidiously at his lips with a silk handkerchief as he put his coffee cup down.
‘You have made a conquest, Dr. Raglan,’ he told the young man smilingly.
‘My daughter was speaking of you only last evening, just before the professor’s arrival.’
Raglan flushed and bent over his plate to hide his slight confusion. An awkward pause had ensued, and Coleridge, conscious that he had started the conversation on this tack, hastened to make amends.
‘What is the programme for today, gentlemen? I realise we have no official business, but I would be glad of a tour of the Castle and perhaps a walk in these agreeable surroundings. Unless the weather is too severe.’
The Count pushed one of the dishes over toward his companions, the servants hovering in the background and looking slightly anxious to Coleridge’s eye.
‘Eggs and bacon, gentlemen,’ Homolky exclaimed with a short laugh. ‘A favourite with the English and the Americans also, is it not?’
‘You are too kind,’ Coleridge said.
Truth to tell, he was exceedingly hungry this morning and he felt he could do justice to the breakfast before them. He took a slice of the coarse-looking brown bread and spread it with butter. It was warm – fresh-baked, in fact – and tasted delicious.
The Count had taken up the thread of their earlier conversation.
‘No, I do not think the weather will be too severe if walking be your pleasure, Professor. Providing you are accompanied by one of the members of my family or my staff. It will not snow, if that is what you meant.’
A sombre image had again floated back into Coleridge’s mind. He shook his head.
‘No, I did not mean that, Count. I was referring to the wolf.’
There was a sudden silence round the table. Dr. Menlow, a tall, gaunt Englishman with sandy hair and a drooping moustache of the same colour, paused with the butter-knife halfway to his toast. The others stared at Coleridge uncomprehendingly. The latter was quick to sense the atmosphere, and he looked apologetically at his host.
‘I trust I have not inadvertently . . .’
Homolky shook his head, his face serious beneath the shock of white hair.
‘No, no, Professor, it is quite in order. The affair is all over the village by now.’
A dark shadow passed across his mobile features.
‘That is why the ladies have not joined us this morning. They are rather upset about the business. The man did a good deal of work for my estate. And, as you know, this is not the first time.’
Coleridge nodded, aware of the puzzled expressions of his colleagues.
‘A man was killed by a wolf last night,’ he said. ‘I saw the body brought in as I was on my way here.’
A visible shiver passed through the servants bustling about in the background, despite the warmth of the room. The effect Coleridge’s words had had on them was not lost on the Count.
‘Leaving aside superstitious nonsense,’ he said sharply, ‘I should be glad of your help, Professor. It is time a proper hunt is organised for the beast. I understand you are a superlative shot.’
Coleridge shrugged, again feeling exposed and inadequate as the eyes of the other six men, who had fallen silent at his news, were turned upon him.
‘I would not say that, Count. But adequate, yes. I have hunted in my native mountains and in those of Europe. But not for what you call sport. Only from necessity.’
The Count raised his eyebrows, but before he could reply, Professor Shaw put in sharply, ‘But superstition is surely why we are here, Count?’
Coleridge was certain their host would have been annoyed at this, but he smiled thinly at the savant’s interruption.
‘An admirable observation, Professor. You are right, of course. But there is a difference between properly conducted scientific research into primitive superstition and the mindless acceptance of old wives’ tales, as I believe you call them.’
He waved a heavily built man in steward’s uniform away from the table. He looked round the vast room, stilling the murmur. Keeping his penetrating eyes fixed upon the middle distance he continued, lowering his voice almost to a whisper so that the breakfasting company had to strain their ears.
‘These are very simple people, gentlemen. They are admirable in many ways. But they are like frightened children when something like this happens.’
‘But what has happened?’ put in George Parker with mild exasperation.
Coleridge waited for his host to go on, but he remained silent, so the professor took up the story.
‘There is apparently a large black wolf which leads a marauding pack hereabouts. The wolf – or the members of the pack – has been responsible for the deaths of three people from the village. And the local inhabitants say there is something supernatural about the animal that leads the pack. They have continually fired at the creature but have been unable to hit it.’
‘Perhaps it’s because they’re such beastly bad shots,’ put in Dr. Raglan sotto voce, causing fleeting smiles to run round the table.
To Coleridge’s surprise the Count shook his head.
‘I think there is a little more to it than that, Doctor.’
He glanced about him again, making sure the nearest servants were out of earshot.
‘There is something strange. Not supernatural, in my opinion. But the beast which leads the pack is certainly cunning and quite out of the ordinary.’
He fixed the company with his piercing eyes.
‘I have never come across anything like it. And I am an experienced hunter, both here and in other parts of Europe.’
‘You have taken part in the hunts yourself, then,’ said Coleridge.
The tall figure of their host was erect now, as though he were listening for something above the crackling of the fire.
‘Indeed. And there were some surprising incidents.’
He held up his hand suddenly.
‘Though I would not wish this information to reach the ladies. They have been much troubled by this business already.’
‘I do hope all this will not interfere with the business for which we have gathered here,’ put in Dr. Abercrombie, a burly, bearded Scotsman who had not yet spoken.
‘You need have no fears on that account, Doctor,’ Homolky replied smoothly, his eyes sweeping round the company.
The eighth man at table, who had been silent hitherto, was sitting diagonally across from Coleridge. He wore a suit of dark brown plus-fours, which made him look as though he had strolled off a Scottish grouse-moor, Coleridge thought.
Middle-aged, and with a greying beard, he was a noted expert on vampirism and witchcraft. He had arrived late for the Congress, having been detained on medical consultations in Paris, but had promised to read some important papers containing original research during the ten-day programme the Count and his household staff had organised.
Now he drummed with thick spatulate fingers on the immaculate white cloth before him, the steam from his coffee cup making little blurred images of his features as it rose past his face toward the ceiling. He stared thoughtfully across at Coleridge.
‘It has already been touched on, of course, but if there does turn out to be something odd about this creature, would it not be extremely interesting?’
The Count had a momentary expression of annoyance on his face but disguised it as he again turned down to address himself to the heaped plate before him. Coleridge’s own bacon was getting cold, and he also resumed his interrupted meal, the others following suit.
‘I mean,’ Dr. Sullivan went on, almost dreamily. ‘This is the very stuff of our own studies. The observation of primitive superstition at close hand and under such circumstances would be absorbing, to say the least.’
The words seemed to hang in the air far longer than one would have thought, Coleridge felt.
Sullivan had just the faintest touch of malice in his smile as he glanced around the table.
‘Or is it the difference between comfortable scholarship in agreeable surroundings and the rigours of fieldwork which might turn out to be extremely dangerous?’
The Count dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, his manner formal and correct.
‘We shall see, Dr. Sullivan,’ he said. ‘In the meantime the food is getting cold.’
An uneasy silence fell over the table, which persisted until the end of the meal.