“‘Let me save you some trouble.’ I refilled his glass this time and told him about Rossi’s adventures in Istanbul and then about his disappearance, at which Hugh’s eyes bulged, although he said nothing. Finally I described my meeting with Helen, leaving out nothing about her claim to Rossi, and all of our travels and research to date, including our encounters with Turgut. ‘You see,’ I concluded, ‘at this point it hardly surprises me to have my hotel room turned upside down.’
“‘Yes, exactly.’ He seemed to brood for a moment. We had made our way through a multitude of stews and pickles by this time, and he put his fork down rather sadly, as if regretting to see the last of them. ‘It’s most remarkable, our meeting like this. But I’m distressed to hear about Professor Rossi’s disappearance-very distressed. That’s dreadfully strange. I wouldn’t have sworn before hearing your story that there was more involved in researching Dracula than the usual stuff. Except that I have had an odd feeling, you know, about my own book, this whole time. One doesn’t want to go just on odd feelings, but there it is.’
“‘I can see I haven’t stretched your credulity as much as I feared I might.’
“‘And these books,’ he mused. ‘I count four of them-mine, yours, Professor Rossi’s, and the one belonging to that professor in Istanbul. It’s damned strange that there should be four such alike.’
“‘Have you ever met Turgut Bora?’ I asked. ‘You said you’ve been to Istanbul a few times.’
“He shook his head. ‘No, I’ve never even heard the name. But then he’s in literature, and I wouldn’t have come across him in the history department there, or at any conferences. I’d appreciate your helping me get in touch with him someday, if you would. I’ve never been to the archive you describe, but I read about it in England and was thinking of giving it a try. You’ve saved me the trouble, though, as you say. You know, I’d never thought of the thing as a map-the dragon in my book. That’s an extraordinary idea.’
“‘Yes, and possibly a matter of life or death for Rossi,’ I said. ‘But now it’s your turn. How did you come across your book?’
“He looked grave. ‘As you’ve described in your case-and the other two-I didn’t so much come across my book as receive it, although from where or from whom I couldn’t tell you. Perhaps I should give you a little background.’ He was silent a moment, and I had the sense that this was a difficult subject for him. ‘You see, I took my degree at Oxford nine years ago, and then went to teach at the University of London. My family lives in Cumbria, in the Lake District, and they are not wealthy. They struggled-and I did, too-so that I could have the best of educations. I always felt a bit on the outside, you know, particularly at my public school-my uncle helped put me through there. I suppose I studied harder than most, trying to excel. History was my great love, from the beginning.’
“Hugh patted his lips with his napkin and shook his head, as if remembering youthful folly. ‘I knew by the end of my second year of university that I was going to do rather well, and this goaded me further. Then the war came and interrupted everything. I’d finished almost three years at Oxford. I first heard of Rossi there, by the way, although I never met him. He must have left for America several years before I came to the university.’
“He stroked his chin with a large, rather chapped hand. ‘I couldn’t have loved my studies more, but I loved my country, too, and I enlisted right away, in the navy. I was shipped out to Italy and then home again a year later with wounds in my arms and legs.’
“He touched his white cotton shirtsleeve gingerly, just above the cuff, as if feeling the surprise of blood there again. ‘I recovered rather quickly and wanted to go back out, but they wouldn’t take me-one eye had been affected when the ship blew up. So I returned to Oxford and tried to ignore the sirens, and I finished my degree just after the war ended. The last weeks I was there were some of the happiest of my life, I think, in spite of all the shortages-this terrible curse had been lifted from the world, I was almost done with my delayed studies, and a girl back home I’d loved most of my life had finally agreed to marry me. I had no money, and there was no food anyway, but I ate sardines in my room and wrote love letters home-I guess you don’t mind my telling you all this-and I studied like a demon for my examinations. I got myself into a great state of fatigue, of course.’
“He picked up the bottle of Tokay, which was empty, and set it down again with a sigh. ‘I was nearly done with the whole ordeal, and we’d set a wedding date for the end of June. The night before my last examination, I stayed up until the wee hours looking over my notes. I knew I’d covered everything I needed to already, but I simply couldn’t stop myself. I was working in a corner of the library in my college, sort of tucked away behind some bookshelves where I didn’t have to watch the other few madmen in there looking through their own notes.
“‘There are some awfully nice books in those little libraries, and I let myself get distracted for a moment or two by a volume of Dryden’s sonnets just a hand’s reach away. Then I made myself put it back, thinking I’d better go out and have a cigarette and try to concentrate again afterward. I tucked the book back into the shelf and went to the courtyard. It was a lovely spring night, and I stood there thinking about Elspeth and the cottage she was fixing up for us, and about my best friend-would have been my best man-who’d died over the Ploiesti oil fields with the Americans, and then I went back up to the library. To my surprise, Dryden was lying there on my desk as if I’d never put it away, and I thought I must be getting pretty noddleheaded with all the work. So I turned to put it up, but I saw there was no space for it. It had been right next to Dante, I was sure, but now there was a different book there, a book that had a very old-looking spine with a little creature engraved on it. I pulled it out and it fell open in my hands to-well, you know.’
“His friendly face was pale now, and he searched first his shirt and then his pants pockets until he found a package of cigarettes. ‘You don’t smoke?’ He lit one and drew heavily on it. ‘I was caught by the appearance of the book, its apparent age, the menacing look of the dragon-everything that struck you, too, about yours. There were no librarians there at three in the morning, so I went down to the catalog and dug around a bit by myself, but I learned only Vlad Tepes’s name and lineage. Since there was no library stamp in the book, I took it home with me.
“‘I slept poorly and couldn’t concentrate in the least on my examination the next morning; all I could think of was getting to the other libraries and perhaps to London to see what I could find out. But I didn’t have time, and when I went up for my wedding, I took the little book and kept looking at it at odd moments. Elspeth caught me with it, and when I explained she didn’t like it, not a bit. That was five days to our wedding and yet I couldn’t stop thinking about the book, and talking to her about it, too, until she told me not to.
“‘Then one morning-it was two days to the wedding-I had a sudden inspiration. You see, there’s a great house not too far from my parents’ village, a Jacobean pile people come to see on bus tours. I’d always thought it sort of a bore on our school trips, but I remembered that the nobleman who’d built it had been a book collector and had things from all over the world. Since I couldn’t go to London until after the wedding, I thought I’d get myself into the house library, which is famous, and poke around, perhaps even find something on Transylvania. I told my parents I was going for a walk, and I knew they’d assume I was going to see Elsie.
“‘It was a rainy morning-foggy, too, and cold. The housekeeper at the great house said they weren’t open for tours that day, but she let me come in to look at the library. She’d heard about the wedding in the village, knew my grandmother, and brewed me a cup of tea. By the time I had my mackintosh off and had found twenty shelves of books from that old Jacobean’s Grand Tour, which had reached rather farther east than most, I’d forgotten everything else.