Read Online The House of the Wolf by Basil Copper - Free Book Online
Authors: Basil Copper
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they were engaged. If he knew George Parker, he would have chosen something much more colourful for his opening paper. Coleridge grunted.
He leaned forward, searching in his breast pocket for his pen. He crossed out the heading, conscious of its dry inadequacy. He thought for a moment, his eyes half-closed. Then he rapidly scribbled in a substitution. ‘Some Aspects of the Werewolf Myth.’
He smiled faintly at the conceit, as though he were proposing something greatly daring in such a title. The smile was still curving his lips when there came the click of a door in the silence and someone came out onto the carved wooden balcony which overhung the end of the room and stared down at him.
After a moment or two Coleridge made out that it was the Count’s daughter, Nadia. She gave him a hesitant smile as she caught his eye and then moved over to the head of a small spiral staircase which led down to floor level. Coleridge got up and walked over to meet her. He heard another noise then and, turning, was just in time to see the majordomo disappearing through the far door. The girl had evidently given him some discreet signal, indicating that she wished to talk alone with her guest.
Coleridge awaited the girl at the foot of the stairs with faint trepidation. Firstly, he often felt ill at ease with such young women; he had had some embarrassing experiences with his own students when lecturing in America. The modern young girl was inclined to be intense and romantic and often read subtle implications into Coleridge’s lectures which he had certainly never intended.
He was no prig, and he smiled briefly as the thought swiftly chased itself across his mind. And he was certainly not too old for young women, though he preferred those of more mature years; the early thirties was a sensible age, he believed. Now as he waited, one hand on the carved wooden balustrade, listening to the clattering of the girl’s heavy boots on the treads above, he hoped she would not make him the recipient of some unwanted and unlooked-for confidence.
Coleridge was aware that subtle influences were gathering around him; from attending a highly enjoyable and relaxing private gathering of like-minded savants he might well find himself enmeshed in something far more complicated.
The thought was ridiculous on the surface, but the old adage about coming events and their shadows was much in Coleridge’s mind, though it did not show on his face as he gave Nadia Homolky a welcoming smile as she reached the foot of the spiral.
This morning she wore some sort of masculine hunting costume which showed her full figure to advantage. The effect was delightful, Coleridge thought, and was certainly practical in such a country and in such weather conditions as prevailed outside. She caught the approval in his eyes and smiled again, the mellow light of the overhead lamps making a shimmering mass of her shoulder-length hair.
‘I am glad to find you alone this morning, Professor,’ she said in her clear-minted English, every syllable precise and correct in a way in which native-born English-speakers never enunciate. There was nothing mechanical about it, but it proved to Coleridge that she had had the finest teachers who had not been satisfied until the slightest trace of an Eastern European accent had been eliminated. He guessed that her father had had a good deal to do with her schooling.
The two walked back toward the fireplace, a faint, elusive perfume Coleridge had noted the previous night emanating from the girl’s hair. He supposed it might have been the pomade or whatever it was that young ladies washed or dressed their hair with.
Coleridge had not ventured an answer to her first remark, and now the girl turned her head sideways to give him a penetrating look. He was beginning to find her close proximity a little overpowering, and he moved quickly away to the other side of the fireplace. Nadia Homolky appeared not to have noticed, but the savant was
He leaned forward, searching in his breast pocket for his pen. He crossed out the heading, conscious of its dry inadequacy. He thought for a moment, his eyes half-closed. Then he rapidly scribbled in a substitution. ‘Some Aspects of the Werewolf Myth.’
He smiled faintly at the conceit, as though he were proposing something greatly daring in such a title. The smile was still curving his lips when there came the click of a door in the silence and someone came out onto the carved wooden balcony which overhung the end of the room and stared down at him.
After a moment or two Coleridge made out that it was the Count’s daughter, Nadia. She gave him a hesitant smile as she caught his eye and then moved over to the head of a small spiral staircase which led down to floor level. Coleridge got up and walked over to meet her. He heard another noise then and, turning, was just in time to see the majordomo disappearing through the far door. The girl had evidently given him some discreet signal, indicating that she wished to talk alone with her guest.
Coleridge awaited the girl at the foot of the stairs with faint trepidation. Firstly, he often felt ill at ease with such young women; he had had some embarrassing experiences with his own students when lecturing in America. The modern young girl was inclined to be intense and romantic and often read subtle implications into Coleridge’s lectures which he had certainly never intended.
He was no prig, and he smiled briefly as the thought swiftly chased itself across his mind. And he was certainly not too old for young women, though he preferred those of more mature years; the early thirties was a sensible age, he believed. Now as he waited, one hand on the carved wooden balustrade, listening to the clattering of the girl’s heavy boots on the treads above, he hoped she would not make him the recipient of some unwanted and unlooked-for confidence.
Coleridge was aware that subtle influences were gathering around him; from attending a highly enjoyable and relaxing private gathering of like-minded savants he might well find himself enmeshed in something far more complicated.
The thought was ridiculous on the surface, but the old adage about coming events and their shadows was much in Coleridge’s mind, though it did not show on his face as he gave Nadia Homolky a welcoming smile as she reached the foot of the spiral.
This morning she wore some sort of masculine hunting costume which showed her full figure to advantage. The effect was delightful, Coleridge thought, and was certainly practical in such a country and in such weather conditions as prevailed outside. She caught the approval in his eyes and smiled again, the mellow light of the overhead lamps making a shimmering mass of her shoulder-length hair.
‘I am glad to find you alone this morning, Professor,’ she said in her clear-minted English, every syllable precise and correct in a way in which native-born English-speakers never enunciate. There was nothing mechanical about it, but it proved to Coleridge that she had had the finest teachers who had not been satisfied until the slightest trace of an Eastern European accent had been eliminated. He guessed that her father had had a good deal to do with her schooling.
The two walked back toward the fireplace, a faint, elusive perfume Coleridge had noted the previous night emanating from the girl’s hair. He supposed it might have been the pomade or whatever it was that young ladies washed or dressed their hair with.
Coleridge had not ventured an answer to her first remark, and now the girl turned her head sideways to give him a penetrating look. He was beginning to find her close proximity a little overpowering, and he moved quickly away to the other side of the fireplace. Nadia Homolky appeared not to have noticed, but the savant was
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