The House of the Wolf by Basil Copper

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