The Curse of Christmas (22 page)

“Cold,” he said.

“Was it business or pleasure
which prompted your visit?” she persisted.

“Business.”

“Were you there for long?”

“Three days.”

“Your business must have been
swiftly concluded?”

“Very swiftly.”

It was Freddy who interrupted
the colloquy by raising the topic that was still on everyone’s lips
when they weren’t laughing at the Prince Regent.

“I believe you were at the
suffrage rally, Countess?”

“Yes, but I was thankfully
spared any injuries by the timely intervention of a rescuer.” She
risked a glance at the General expecting him to be glowering at
Freddy for broaching a subject that was proscribed, but mine host
was beaming with pride.

“Freddy rescued Violet,” he
announced proudly to the group. “Braving enemy fire for the woman
he loves. My daughter is a lucky girl to have a protector of the
calibre of Viscount Frederick Cazenove.”

Freddy glanced down the length
of the table toward Violet. Flickering candles framed unrequited
love in a romantic light. “Any man would have done the same.”

“Nonsense,” slammed the General,
“most of the new breed are namby-pamby, coddled, mama’s boys. They
wouldn’t last one day in the burning sun in the Khyber Pass. You
could have bought yourself a commission, Freddy, except they did
away with them. A few weeks spent at Sandhurst and I can put in a
good word with General Hawksmoor, fast-track you straight to the
front. Bravery like yours needs to be harnessed. And for anyone
here who might not know it, the Boers declared war on the British
on the eleventh day of October just gone. We are at war, ladies and
gentlemen!”

Freddy managed to look modest
and manly at the same time. “Now, General, we agreed we wouldn’t
put my action about. It sounds like bragging. It’s not good
form.”

“Well, I see your point, Freddy.
I don’t want to embarrass you. But it is idiotic not to praise
where praise is due. You think about Sandhurst. Just spend a couple
of weeks training and I’ll have you in the middle of all the action
in no time. Our boys could use someone like you to show the way.”
He turned to his right. “Who was your rescuer, Countess?”

Now, for whatever reason,
Colonel Moriarty had not let on that they had previously met, so
she took her cue from him. “It happened so quickly I failed to ask
his name.”

“Oh, how romantic!” gushed Miss
Blague. “It could have been the Scarlet Pimpernel!”

“I believe,” said Batty gently,
“he is fictional.”

Miss Blague looked surprised.
“Are you sure?”

Batty nodded. “They seek him
here, they seek him there,” he recited in a jocular tone. “Those
Frenchies seek him everywhere.”

Dolly smiled fondly at her
husband then directed her question at Freddy. “Did they catch the
man who threw the fire crackers?”

“Not yet,” said Freddy, “but it
is only a matter of time.”

“I have always thought,” mused
the Countess, “that it is more difficult to catch one rogue working
alone than a gang of anarchists working in concert – would you
agree?”

Freddy regarded her shrewdly. “I
am not qualified to answer that. I have not had much experience
with anarchists.” He aimed a glance at his friend. “What say you
James? Is one rogue harder to nail than a host of them?”

“Certainly,” replied the other
without hesitation. “A single assassin can melt into the
background. He never has to worry about betrayal. A group attracts
more attention and is only as good as the stupidest, rather than
the best of them. If one slips up the whole lot go down.”

“Succinctly stated, Colonel
Moriarty,” said General de Merville. “I couldn’t have put it better
myself. And that is exactly why I have forbidden Violet from
attending any more rallies. Until the blighter is caught there can
be no question of public gatherings.”

“But isn’t that just giving in
to fear?” said the Countess. “It signals to the assassin that he
has won.”

Colonel Moriarty and the
Countess were sitting diagonally opposite each other at a mahogany
table that stretched to fifteen feet and yet he still managed to
snare her with a single look. “One must sometimes sacrifice a
battle in order to win the war.”

“I would never attend a rally,”
declared Miss Blague. “Women do not need the vote.”

Violet bristled before changing
the subject. “Has anyone seen the new magic show with the Italian
who is said to rival Houdini?”

“We have,” volunteered Dolly.
“We went last week. It was spectacular, wasn’t it, dear?”

“Yes, dear,” agreed Batty
blandly.

“I’m going tomorrow night,”
gushed Miss Blague. “Daddy was going to go with me but he is laid
up with gout so I have a spare ticket.” She paused and looked
meaningfully at the man to her left.

Violet noticed how Colonel
Moriarty suddenly found a piece of cork floating in his glass. It
seemed to claim all his attention. “I would love to go with you,”
she said hopefully, sounding as if she meant it. “If you cannot
find anyone else to go, that is. I have some free time on my hands
at present.”

Miss Blague smiled weakly. “Oh,
yes, of course, that would be just splendid. Shall we say eight
o’clock in the foyer of the Adelphus Theatre?” It was then that
Miss Blague made her second faux pas for the evening. “Did anyone
read the article by Agrippa today?”

“I did!” piped up Dolly. “And I
don’t know what the world is coming to – the heir to the throne a
homicidal maniac!”

“Alleged homicidal maniac,
dear,” corrected Batty gently.

“Well, what’s the difference?”
challenged Miss Blague. “He was at the scene of the murder of that
poor woman – that must count for something.”

“If being at the scene of a
crime were a crime,” pointed out Miss de Merville, “half of England
would be guilty of something. Isn’t that right, Colonel?”

Women made a habit of deferring
to men whenever they expressed a point of view. It was a way of
seeking validation for their opinions. It annoyed the Countess no
end. But since Violet de Merville was a committed suffragette of
more than average intelligence, she decided to give her the benefit
of the doubt. It was a hostess’s job to keep the conversation
flowing and to give all her guests a chance to air their views.
Dinner parties dominated by one voice were always tedious and the
Countess imagined that Miss de Merville had had lots of practice at
making sure her father’s voice did not drown out everyone
else’s.

“Yes, certainly,” agreed the
Colonel. “The consulting detective, Mr Sherlock Holmes, has proved
time and again that what appears to be a straightforward case is
often more complex. Gone are the days when a footprint at the scene
of a crime was enough to hang a man.”

Dolly was becoming quite
animated. “Yes, yes, I have read all the stories by Dr John Watson,
the chronicler of Mr Holmes, and I am amazed how the consulting
detective can sift the various clues, overlooking those that may
even have been falsely planted, and in the end name the villain of
the piece.” She turned to Miss Blague, smiling generously. “I can
lend you my books. I have them all.”

Miss Blague was twisting the
stem of her wine glass. “Thank you, Dolly, but I never read books.
Daddy does not approve. He says it causes squinting in women and
can even lead to a hunchback.”

“Couldn’t agree more, young
lady!” boomed the General. “My daughter reads too much, far too
much! Your Daddy is a wise man; a wise man indeed. If only my
daughter heeded her papa as you do.”

Miss de Merville smiled fondly
at her papa. “Does reading cause squinting in men, or is it only in
women?”

“Only in women,” said the
General. “It is a deficiency in the eyesight of girls at
birth.”

Dolly was trying
not
to
squint.

Batty was drawing click beetles
on the tablecloth with his dessert fork.

Freddy drained his glass of red.
“Well, I have read the case studies by Dr John Watson, and they
seem completely fabricated. I cannot see how the consulting
detective, Mr Holmes, can possibly reach the conclusions he does.
His deductions are all pie in the sky.”

“Here! Here!” cried the General.
“They read like fiction rather than fact. The whole crime will
hinge on a snowflake or an orange pip. It beggars belief!”

“And,” added Freddy, endearing
himself further to his potential father-in-law, “he can apparently
tell everything about a man’s life from his walking stick – from
his occupation to the type of dog he has. Impossible, I say!”

The General guffawed. “I bet
many an innocent man has been banged up in Newgate, Reading and
Wormwood Scrubs by Mr Holmes’s appraisal of their cigar ash! And
speaking of cigars, gentlemen, it may be high time to visit the
humidor for a Havana.”

“Not yet, papa,” interceded
their hostess. “We have not yet had our dessert.”

“The clue is in the cutlery,”
quipped the Countess.

Everyone laughed except the
Colonel.

“I believe you are acquainted
with Dr Watson?” he directed her way across the table.

There was no evading the
spotlight. “It is true that we have travelled extensively together
recently.”

“Solving crimes?” he pressed
remorselessly.

“Dr Watson is as much of a
marvel as Mr Sherlock Holmes,” she admitted.

“What sorts of crimes?” gushed
Dolly; excited that a school-friend of hers could be so lucky as to
travel with the chronicler of a consulting detective.

“Click-click,” muttered Batty
under his breath.

Freddy stifled a yawn. “The Case
of the Missing Hat Pin.”

Miss Blague stifled another.
“The Adventure of the Afternoon Tea Cake.”

Colonel Moriarty remained
supremely focused. He reeled off their cases and she was surprised
at how much he knew. “The Baskerville case is one. The golf course
murders in Lammermoor. The penny dreadful murders in York. The case
of the dead clairvoyant. The murder at Chanteloup. And most
recently the murders in Paris associated with the Grand Guignol.
That’s quite an impressive achievement for the doctor.”

“He’s an impressive man,” she
said.

Freddy sat forward on his
elbows. “I didn’t realize Dr Watson was a consulting detective? Is
he taking over the business from his friend?”

“No,” she said. “These things
just happened while we were travelling.”

“So they’re true!” gushed Dolly.
“How thrilling! You always were the lucky one, Varv!”

Their hostess indicated with a
discrete nod for the butler to serve the dessert. “Whatever
happened to Mr Holmes? I believe he survived that terrible accident
in Switzerland after all.”

“He is still consulting,
darling,” replied Freddy. “But not as many cases as before.”

The General indicated for the
butler to pour the dessert wine. “Are you sure, Freddy? Some fellow
at the club said Sherlock definitely died and Scotland Yard has got
some actor chap pretending to be Sherlock to keep the criminal
fraternity on their toes.”

Freddy laughed. “Now, that’s as
far-fetched as the rest of the fiction pertaining to Mr Holmes!
Which fool said that?”

The General’s brow furrowed
darkly. “Bartleby or Barrowby – I cannot remember who exactly. It
was whispered hurriedly at the top of the stairs. You know the
rules - no talking inside the Diogenes Club.”

“A club where there is no
talking!” exclaimed Miss Blague incredulously, making faux pas
number three. “Who would want to join such a boring old club?”

“Everyone in London,” said
Colonel Moriarty in a level tone, before fixing his sights on his
friend. “Are you a member yet Freddy?”

“As soon as the old pater shakes
off the mortal coil a vacancy will open up, but even that’s no
personal guarantee. Membership is as rare as hen’s teeth. I know a
chap whose father died thirteen years ago and he is still waiting
to get an entree. The brother of Sherlock Holmes is the current
Master, is that right, General?”

“Club matters are never
discussed, Freddy,” said mine host severely. “Excommunication is
swift and merciless to those who forget themselves.”

“It sounds more like a secret
society,” commented Dolly, who had possibly consumed too much
champagne and not enough of the other because of a swarm of dreaded
butterflies.

“Sounds like the mysterious
Illuminati,” added Batty, ever the innocent, “or some ancient
throwback to the crusades – the Knights Templars or some such.”

“My Daddy is a Freemason,”
announced Miss Blague importantly.

As a winter berry trifle was
being served, Miss de Merville posited the next question to the
Countess.

“Mrs Aspen told me you are
helping to find the killer of Miss Quilligan?”

“”What!” guffawed the General.
“Never heard such errant nonsense – a woman detective!”

“I thought the killer was the
Prince Regent?” said Miss Blague.

“It would be if Agrippa had his
way.” Moriarty’s tone was dry.

“Click- click,” said Batty.

“The killer will never be
caught,” asserted Freddy. “Just as the Ripper was never caught. Not
that I am suggesting it was the ridiculous Bertie Battenberg.”

“Who?” Miss Blague was growing
ever more confused.

“Do you have anything to go on?”
pressed Moriarty, ignoring the young lady to his right.

“Not much,” replied the
Countess, “except it was unlikely to have been a robbery.”

“Why do you say that?” asked
Dolly eagerly.

“A robber does not usually gut
someone for a few shillings and pence, and her paint can was
missing.”

“What paint can?” said everyone
at the same time.

“She was writing graffiti when
she was killed,” said the Countess.

“Graffiti?” came the chorus.

Miss de Merville gasped. “You
think Miss Quilligan wrote Angelmaker?”