The House of the Wolf by Basil Copper Read Free Book Online Page A

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