SILENT (a psychological thriller, combining mystery, crime and suspense) Read online

  Mason went closer. The eyes were depicted as being open, not closed as in death, as if he stared upwards mockingly to heaven. Was he imagining it or was the expression one of defiance?

  ‘You see, there is a strong resemblance to you,’ Horvat observed.

  Mason could see it but he didn’t like it. ‘In appearance only,’ he qualified. ‘So where is my mother’s tomb?’

  ‘It is not here,’ he said. ‘This place is for the Baron and the Baron only. Your mother is buried elsewhere.’

  ‘I don’t get it. What was so special about my father that would attract a young woman like Dorottya? A man you say was a deformed sadistic. Something doesn’t hang right.’

  Horvat stood still and silent for a moment, studying Baron Dragutin’s marble face. ‘Baron Dragutin, at the age of around eighty-one, a man who had never married, had never fathered a child, decided to remedy the situation. He was desperate to produce an heir. Perhaps it was his growing old, getting closer to death, which stirred these singular thoughts. Death is the great organiser, Mr Mason. Putting your life into order before it is extinguished – it affects us all.’

  ‘Or maybe he believed his own stories about his pact with the devil,’ said Mason mockingly.

  ‘Or simply to produce an heir to whom he might pass on his estate. It is a natural urge for a man in Baron Dragutin’s position. Whatever the case, I remember the time well. He became like a man possessed. I was sent out to find a suitable young companion. She had to be a woman of Hungarian birth, attractive, with proven child-bearing qualifications.’

  ‘It’s as if he was choosing a cow,’ he said, sneering in disgust.

  ‘I was a man given a task to perform. It is no business of mine to contemplate the motivations behind that request. Choosing a wife along such lines is not a new thing, Mr Mason.’

  ‘So you say,’ he mumbled.

  ‘A number of suitable ladies were put before Baron Dragutin. From them the Baron chose Dorottya, a widow who had lost her husband and two children to cholera while abroad. She had no real family left living, and no great wealth to speak of. But Baron Dragutin singled her out for reasons only he knew. She was invited to Castle Dragutin, and there my responsibilities in the matter came to an end.’ He fell thoughtful, staring down at the dead leaves that scuttled around his boots. ‘But it is easy to wash your hands, as you say. The next occasion I had to visit Castle Dragutin I learned that there had been a wedding which no one outside knew about. Dorottya Szendrey had become the bride of Baron Dragutin.’

  ‘So let me guess, she was some kind of money-grabber, after his title or something. It certainly wasn’t for his good looks and sense of humour.’

  ‘Dorottya was never that shallow, Mr Mason. A kinder, more honest and down-to-earth woman you would be hard-pressed to find. I assumed the marriage to have been the result of mutual agreement. I soon came to have my doubts. Dorottya, the new bride, was rarely to be seen. I asked after her when my business took me to the castle, but on each occasion I was informed she was ill or tired, or had suffered some other calamity that kept her confined to her rooms and shut away from view.

  ‘Then one day she happened to find me in Baron Dragutin’s office where I was waiting for him. She was in quite a wild state, her hair previously as neat as a pin was now deliriously unkempt, her dress equally so, and I noticed she wore neither shoes nor stockings. I asked her if she were feeling unwell, and she begged me to take her away from Castle Dragutin, that she was being kept a prisoner, that she had never intended or wanted to be the wife of Baron Dragutin; that she had never wanted to be the wife of the devil’s advocate. She maintained she had been forced against her will into the entire thing.

  ‘She was raving so, when Baron Dragutin came into the room and called immediately for a servant to take her from the room. He apologised profusely and said she was ill and not in her proper mind. I was concerned, naturally so, but he assured me everything was perfectly well. In fact, he said, they had something to celebrate, for Dorottya was going to have a baby, and he said the stress of this mental excitement, knowing that she had already lost two children to disease, was perhaps affecting her mind. She would recover in good time with the proper care and attention. I convinced myself this was the case.’

  ‘And did she? Ever get better?’

  Horvat seemed reluctant to go on, again staring hard at Dragutin’s likeness as if it exerted some kind of hold over him. ‘She found peace, yes,’ he said cryptically.

  ‘Where is she buried? I’d like to see her tomb.’

  ‘She has no tomb, Mr Mason. A simple headstone.’

  ‘Show me,’ he demanded.

  ‘We should be getting back to the house. I have much to show you and much to discuss.’

  ‘Show me,’ he said more forcefully.

  He was glad to get out. Mason felt as if the cold breath of the dead blew on him. Being so close to the body of his father had somehow unsettled him, and no amount of reasoning on his part would make that feeling go away. Horvat locked up the mausoleum and led Mason down a stone path and into an overgrown section tucked behind the mausoleum, both men having to push back encroaching shrubbery and clawing brambles that had been allowed to get out of hand. Finally they came to a headstone, small, inconsequential, choked by weeds, sitting under the dank shade of another yew tree. The grave hadn’t been cared for in the least, as if the dead woman had been dumped here and forgotten.

  Mason bent to his haunches, swept back the tangle of weeds and dead grass. ‘Why is she buried here, of all places?’

  The name on the headstone was Dragutin Jozsefne – the official title she would have been referred to in written form. The suffix ne was the equivalent of wife-of or Mrs. Informally she would have been known by her first name.

  ‘Dorottya Szendrey,’ said Horvat, as if reading his thoughts. ‘She was a pretty woman, aged thirty-three when she died.’

  Mason cleared away leaves. The date on the headstone read 1869 – 1902.

  ‘She died the same year I was born.’ He looked up quizzically at the old man. ‘So young…’

  ‘Yes,’ he said evenly, a curious faraway look in his eye. ‘So young.’

  ‘How did she die, and why has she been buried here, as if she had to be forgotten?’

  He gave a shiver, which might have been a shrug. ‘Twenty-five years ago I was invited to Castle Dragutin, both to celebrate the birth of a son – you, Mr Mason – delivered by Margit, and to take immediate charge of legal matters pertaining to your inheritance. Baron Dragutin appeared overjoyed, as much as I could glean from his voice, as his face was always behind his mask. It was almost as if a weight had been removed from his shoulders. He told me one evening, perhaps the spirits he’d imbibed relaxing his tongue, that life had made him a tired man, that the many years of the pain of disfigurement had been an extra burden he now could no longer bear, and that death would be a welcome relief. But that it wasn’t possible for him to let go until he had a son. Until you came along, Mr Mason. However, his happiness quickly passed, for you were only a matter of a few weeks old when you disappeared.’

  ‘What do you mean, disappeared?’

  ‘You were kidnapped.’

  Mason frowned. ‘Run that by me again.’

  ‘Mountain bandits after ransom money, or angry Slavs out to get vengeance – the Baron had made many enemies over the years. The oppression had created many dispossessed people, and a few took to living in the mountains, there to live the lives of thieves and bandits. A band of them broke into the castle, and clearly knew what they were after and where to go. There was evidence in Dorottya’s room that there had been a struggle of some kind. Her jewellery boxes empty, her rings and necklaces gone. Apparently she fought hard. But unfortunately, during the kidnapping they dragged your mother to the balcony, the one in her room that overlooks the cliffs, and threw her over the edge. She died instantly on the rocks far below. Such a terrible night. A frantic search was instigated immediately to try and find you,
but you had vanished without trace. We waited, but no ransom note ever arrived. No news came of where you were. The Baron never gave up searching for you. Not once in twenty-five years.’

  ‘Dorottya was murdered? Jesus,’ he said. ‘Poor woman.’

  ‘Then, many years later, certain unexpected correspondence came to light following the death of a village woman who lived but six miles from here. It transpired she had been in regular and frequent contact with a woman who had been raising you all this time – the woman you believed to be your mother. They also discovered clear instructions from this woman to burn every letter, which, fortunately for the Baron, hadn’t been heeded. They provided details of your travels, how you had lived in Zagreb for a time, how you moved around Europe and, finally, when the money gave out, you went over to America. But the Baron was never to experience the joy of seeing you, for the day after I informed Baron Dragutin about your exact whereabouts, he died.’

  ‘Why was I taken? Why did this woman keep me for so long if I wasn’t her son? None of that makes sense. If it were purely for ransom they’d have made their move, and if nothing was paid they’d have abandoned me, or killed me. But she looked after me till the end. OK, so she acted like she resented me sometimes, but nothing beyond that.’

  ‘Some things we will never know,’ he said guardedly. ‘It is believed you were sold like so much booty by the bandits, passed from hand to hand, eventually falling into the woman’s hands. But enough of events we cannot fathom, Mr Mason. We must contend with the here and now.’ He averted his eyes.

  ‘The old guy wanted me here in person, didn’t he? It wasn’t really a stipulation of some Slavonian legal ruling.’

  ‘Partly, yes, but not entirely. As for my part, I am merely carrying out the request he made. And now you are here. But that is no bad thing, Mr Mason. It is best you see this estate for yourself.’

  ‘Is this about the curse, Mr Horvat? My father’s sick request is so that I inherit more than his castle, huh?’ he said mockingly. ‘The man was crazy.’

  ‘I do not believe in such things as pacts with the devil or curses, Mr Mason. I am a logical man, as you have pointed out.’

  ‘But you followed his instructions to the letter, every step of the way, no deviation, whatever he asked of you, even though he is dead. Why is that, Mr Horvat?’

  ‘It is my job.’

  ‘Or is there something more?’

  ‘I don’t follow you, Mr Mason.’

  ‘I think you do, Mr Horvat. You fear him, too, don’t you? Even though the man is stone-cold under his marble statue, you still fear him like you did in life. You struggle, don’t you, Mr Horvat, to separate out truth from superstition. I can see it in your eyes. You were afraid of him then and you’re afraid of him now. He’s still got some kind of hold over you.’

  ‘I have my duties to perform, that is all. You read far more into things than is necessary.’

  ‘OK, let me ask you; do you think I’m cursed now? Is that why everyone looks at me in that strange way? Am I now to become my evil father, take over from where he left off, doing the devil’s work?’ He said it half-mockingly. ‘A curse? It was a load of baloney before, and it’s still a load of baloney, Mr Horvat.’

  ‘Quite,’ he said shortly. ‘And yes, you do inherit more than a castle, Mr Mason. You are also bequeathed the equivalent of nearly two-million dollars in investments and in bank deposits. You are a rich man. That is the reason I came to fetch you. Would I deny any man such an inheritance?’

  Mason stopped short. ‘Are you joking?’

  ‘Please stop saying that, Mr Mason; it is getting tiresome.’ He continued walking.

  ‘’Hell, you could have told me that before all the curse-crap! That puts a very different gloss on things!’

  Horvat’s watery eyes were solemn. ‘As you say, Mr Mason. But a curse can take many different forms.’

  * * * *

  16

  An Inescapable Truth

  Mason stood up, looked up from his mother’s grave and in the distance he saw a shadowy mound close to the ground. The shadow rose and became the familiar form of Margit. On seeing Mason and Horvat she turned and hurried away.

  ‘What is she doing here?’ Mason quizzed.

  ‘It is nothing,’ he replied. ‘We must go inside now, I think. The snow must come soon.’

  Ignoring Horvat, Mason went over to where Margit had been standing, amidst a tangle of weeds and feathery grass stems, dead and dried. A small patch of earth had been cleared and at its head was a headstone. It was new, the pale stone looking like a white bone sticking from the earth. He read the name carved into it. Lengyel Imre, 1883 – 1902. He looked at Horvat for an explanation.

  ‘Imre was Margit and Zsigmund’s only son,’ he said.

  ‘He died the same year as my mother, the year I was born.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He was so young, too, about nineteen-years old. When Baron Dragutin died the few servants who worked here all left. All except Margit and Zsigmund. They refused to leave their son. If it were not for them, the castle would have been left completely empty.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘He was found murdered,’ he said shortly, ‘a few days after the murder of your mother. At first the talk was that he’d been involved in the kidnapping, working with the bandits; that’s how they gained entry to the castle. But his body was found in the forest not far away. It was then said rather than working with the bandits he had stumbled upon them trying to break into the castle, and tried to prevent the kidnapping. They took him, maybe as a hostage, who knows? His body had been brutally tortured and his head staved in with a rock or some other blunt instrument. Margit and Zsigmund were understandably distraught.’

  ‘But the headstone is new, recently erected as far as I can see.’

  ‘The Baron prevented a monument from being put up when Imre died.’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ said Mason. ‘Why, if he tried to save Dorottya?’

  ‘The workings of your father’s mind have never been easy to understand.’

  Then the snow came, as Horvat predicted. Fine, powdery, swirling almost mist-like around them. Soon the far mountains melted into the corpse-white sky and disappeared from view. Presently the snow tumbled down in large fat globs and forced Mason and Horvat to abandon their tour of the grounds and seek shelter inside. Mason did not need an excuse; the land was bleak, colourless and cheerless, like dead flesh, upon which stood Castle Dragutin like a crusty white scab. The atmosphere affected him deeply, seeped like the cold into his bones, his very being, and filled him with an uncharacteristic melancholy in spite of the heartening news of the fortune he was to inherit.

  As Horvat continued his tour inside, leading Mason through empty corridors and silent rooms filled with sheeted furniture that had all the appearance of lurking spectres, the more his mood sank. Of course, he didn’t believe any of the tales. It was mere suspicion born of hatred and even jealousy. But here, in the castle’s full grip on the imagination, anything seemed possible. Even a logical man like Horvat wasn’t immune to its inveterate, invidious influence. And yet so much remained unanswered, which disturbed him further. He knew Horvat was holding something back, but he wasn’t easy to open up. And no matter that the tale of a Dragutin curse was nonsense, there was no disputing his father’s undoubted unsavoury character. That wasn’t an ingredient he found in the least comforting to have as part of his makeup.

  Eventually he said ‘I’ve seen enough for one day, Mr Horvat.’ He felt drained to the point of exhaustion. He needed to get back to where there were people, light and warmth. ‘And you still haven’t told me how my father made his fortune.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Horvat. ‘It may sit uneasy with you, Mr Mason.’

  ‘I’m getting used to sitting uneasy.’

  ‘Baron Dragutin had long invested in armaments factories. He made his fortune manufacturing the weapons that killed so many during the Great War. What’s more, his investments took li
ttle heed of national boundaries or interests. It is sobering to think that he made money from the shells that rained down on the allied armies, as well as the bullets that brought down many a German. Some people, Mr Mason, get rich off the back of making war. Your father was one of them. And rather fitting, don’t you think, for such a martial man?’

  ‘The bastard,’ he said. ‘Profiting from death.’

  ‘You can always give away the money if it offends your sensibilities, Mr Mason,’ he said. Mason remained tight-lipped. ‘What we have not yet discussed are other stipulations of his will,’ Horvat said.

  ‘Discuss away,’ Mason replied as they headed back. ‘What else is Baron Dragutin insisting from beyond the grave?’

  ‘The will and its legal provisions make it very clear that you cannot sell Castle Dragutin or its land until you have lived in the castle for a period of twenty years.’

  Mason stopped and looked at Horvat incredulously. ‘Jesus, I couldn’t live here twenty days! I’ve never been in a more depressing place in all my life. If it’s mine I intend to put the entire lot up for sale and be shut of it. There’s too much bad feeling attached to it; I’d have the thing demolished if I could.’

  ‘You are prevented from doing that,’ Horvat said calmly.

  ‘Then I’ll contest the will.’

  ‘It will do you no good, Mr Mason. You will have to trust me on this, as your father’s representative. The rulings are legally watertight. I saw to it myself at his request.’

  ‘So I inherit something I can’t do a thing with. Unless I pack up and live here for twenty years – sure, like that’s ever going to happen! I’ve heard of white elephants but as a white elephant this castle takes some beating. And what happened to what you said about everything falling into the hands of the state if I didn’t get over here? Will it get the castle if I don’t do anything; sign no papers, that kind of thing? It’s one way of ridding me of it.’