The House of the Wolf by Basil Copper Page B

for a moment or two; they looked like more gypsy arrivals for the Fair his sledge-driver had spoken of. He hoped he would have an opportunity to visit the Fair during their stay. Coleridge enjoyed such gatherings with their crude vitality and gusto, and the gypsies, particularly the Eastern European variety with their vivid dances and wild stories, were the very essence of folklore.
    In his library at home Coleridge had upward of forty thick notebooks stuffed with the data he had amassed during his travels the length and breadth of Europe in recent years. But then his thoughts reverted to his host and his attractive family. Apart from the cloud cast by the death of the woodman yesterday, the visit promised to be a delightful break from the rigours of the Congress.
    The Count’s guests were hand-picked, though not all had been Coleridge’s first choices for this private gathering; all were English-speaking and generally congenial spirits. It was true that Coleridge did not know every one of them in person. Some he had met for the first time in the capital, others he had corresponded with.
    But they had impressed him favourably with their outward-looking ideas and the depth of their scholarship. Really, this visit to Castle Homolky should have been the highlight of the Hungarian trip. And yet . . .
    Coleridge broke off frowningly and turned away from the window, seeking the deep carved chair by the fire. The incident yesterday he had referred to, in his own mind, as a cloud. Yet it was more than that. The Count and his family were obviously troubled. And the guide and the priest, if he remembered correctly, had both spoken of a projected wolf-hunt. He had even agreed to take part himself.
    He bit his lip, knocking out the ash from his burning cigar on a massive wrought-iron firedog in the shape of a fiercely snarling wolf. He had not noticed it before and was somewhat startled for a moment; the unknown mediaeval craftsman had fashioned the likeness so skilfully as to give the image an expression of unbridled ferocity.
    Coleridge shifted his gaze over to the left-hand side of the fire, ignoring the impassive figure of the white-haired man in the military-style uniform who stood so patiently near the door. The image here was even more interesting: the wolf had something down between his forepaws and, with head lowered, was tearing at it. The effect was so unpleasant that Coleridge felt an involuntary shudder pass through him. Then he was himself again.
    He remembered that his guide had referred to the Castle as The House of the Wolf; that was curious in itself, and now here was the wolf-motif on the firedogs. If there were historical precedent, then the wolf-motif should logically appear in the Count’s coat of arms. He got up again and walked over closer to the fireplace. The heat was intense, but he forgot that as he looked up at the carved heraldic shield that occupied the central panel high in the gloom.
    It was difficult to make out at that distance, and the professor went back and resumed his chair and his disconnected musings. He had brought some notes for one of his principal papers down from his room, and now he took them out and spread them on his knee, running down the subheadings frowningly as he looked for errors and turned over half-formulated ideas.
    He stopped at last, glancing back to the first page with a sharp crackle of paper. He had passed an agreeable few minutes, the only sound being the musical chime of an ancient clock with metal and gilt figures which wheeled about with a faint noise of clockwork before beating out the quarter hours with tiny hammers.
    The thing was a quaint conceit but all of a piece with Castle Homolky and the antiquity of their host’s family, Coleridge thought. He frowned again at the paper’s heading, his cigar burning out unheeded in the fingers of his right hand. He stared at the title.
    ‘On Lycanthropy.’ It seemed a little austere even for such a function as that on which