The House of the Wolf by Basil Copper Page A

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.

CHAPTER 7: CONFIDENCES
    A low dispiriting mist lay over the landscape, cloaking the salient features, and through the darkness of the fir trees which made up much of the surrounding forest, individual trunks stood out blackly like the bars of a cage. That was the impression given to Coleridge as he stood, warm and well-fed, by the windows of a great reception room on an upper floor of the Castle, enjoying the after-breakfast solitude.
    His colleagues had dispersed to their rooms, and his host had gone to see his family regarding their plans for the day. The professor was momentarily alone, apart from the dumb majordomo who stood with his arms crossed at the far end of the room, ready to cater to the guest’s whim, but in reality looking as though he were on guard, Coleridge thought.
    He watched his own reflection in the pane, occasionally obliterated by the dancing gleams of the fire at the opposite side of the tapestry-hung chamber. The end of his cigar glowed an even red, and he relished its fragrant aroma.
    He was glad of the break. There was no noise here, though he could see massive wooden carts negotiating sharp bends that took the road past the Castle. He followed them idly with his eyes