Free The House of the Wolf by Basil Copper Page B

and the girl, and she gave a delighted laugh as she glanced at him sideways as they hurried on down the corridor. They were passing a section where gold-coloured glass depicted the sky, and as Coleridge caught the girl’s eye he saw for one indescribable moment all the beauty of her face transformed into bronze, as though she were herself some Arcadian nymph cast by a master sculptor.
    Coleridge was amazed at the ramifications and elaboration of the Count’s life-style. To produce the flowers he must have hothouses somewhere within the Castle, and he had probably provided the incongruous blooms he had already noted at the inn in Lugos. Incongruous, only in the sense that they were wildly unlikely not only in this savage corner of Hungary but in the existing weather conditions.
    Coleridge realised the whole atmosphere of the Castle led one into a world of fantasy; it was an ideal setting for the scholarly purposes on which they were gathered here, but he did not at all care for it as a background to the somewhat more sinister incidents which appeared to be unfolding at the moment.
    The girl again glanced at Coleridge from beneath her long-lashed eyes.
    ‘A strange place, is it not, Professor? You must suppose we are all tainted with this bizarre atmosphere.’
    ‘Not at all,’ Coleridge said in disavowal but felt constrained to add: ‘That is, I would find it a wonderful atmosphere for a family like yours. But it makes a sombre setting for such an incident as you have described.’
    The girl nodded.
    ‘Precisely,’ she said crisply.
    They were almost at their destination now, for the corridor turned at right-angles and the guest saw that they were in a cul-de-sac; the passage, which had doors leading off both sides, being lit by one large window at the end through which the harsh glare of the light off the snow struck dull reflections from the polished parquet underfoot.
    The girl paused and stood for a moment or two as though in thought.
    ‘Tell me, Professor, why was it Father, with his intense interest in folklore, did not attend your Congress in the city?’
    Coleridge glanced down toward the glare from the far window.
    ‘A fair question, Miss Homolky. The Congress was reserved for professional scholars, historians, and folklorists only. Your father is a gifted amateur, and I mean that in no pejorative sense.’
    The girl made a little shrugging motion of her shoulders.
    ‘So you arranged your own Congress here in which Father could take part and hear the distinguished professionals pontificate on their own pet fields.’
    Coleridge smiled faintly.
    ‘Something of that sort,’ he admitted. ‘It might be expressed in that manner, though whether my colleagues would find your description pleasing is another matter.’
    The girl put her head on one side and looked at him with such a grave expression that it seemed for one moment as though she were a person of advanced years. Coleridge had seen such a look many times on the faces of elderly scholars who were scandalised by or opposed to his views, and it inwardly amused him, though nothing of this showed on his face.
    The girl had moved on now, and she threw open an elaborately carved door to the left. It was obviously her bedroom, as Coleridge could see a large bed with a pink counterpane beyond and a glass case in which were beautifully carved dolls dressed in colourful folk costumes. But he had little time for them; he had bent to his knees, his professional instincts reasserting themselves, and was minutely examining the bottom panel of the half-open door.
    The detail was readily visible by the light spilling in from the windows of the bedroom, and he gave a low exhalation of breath which the girl immediately seized on.
    ‘You have found something?’
    ‘Look at this.’
    Coleridge moved over, and the girl knelt at his side; again he was uneasily aware of the faint, elusive perfume she used, and he drew back slightly, disturbed by her closeness. Miss Homolky