The Curse of Christmas (23 page)

“Angelmaker!” echoed the
General, privy to the insult coined by Agrippa.

“And Anglemaker too,” added the
Countess blandly, noting how Freddy had fallen strangely
silent.

“Now that is truly ridiculous!”
blasted the General.

“Can Miss Quilligan spell?”
asked Batty mildly.

“She was in the habit of
transposing letters,” replied the Countess.

Miss de Merville gasped again
when recollection of previous pamphlets dawned.

“Oh, that explains it then,”
mumbled Batty.

“Explains what?” begged Miss
Blague, who was doing her best to keep up with the
conversation.

No one answered. They were
trying to keep up too.

“So the murderer killed her
because of the graffiti?” reasoned Dolly, who was nowhere near as
stupid as she appeared.

The Countess shook her head. “I
think she was killed because she saw who threw the fire
crackers.”

The dining room was like a
luxurious morgue with a flicker of candles highlighting eight pale
faces that looked like they’d all just seen the same ghost.

Freddy broke the deathly silent
spell. “How could you possibly know that?”

“A matter of deduction,” replied
the Countess.

“Deduction or supposition?”
challenged the handsome Viscount.

“Wishful thinking!” guffawed
their host.

“When one has eliminated the
impossible,” paraphrased Dolly, “whatever is left, no matter how
improbable, must be the truth.”

“What are you taking about,
Dolly?” pleaded Miss Blague. “That doesn’t sound like something you
would say. I cannot understand what has come over you.”

“She is quoting Sherlock
Holmes,” explained Batty, smiling proudly at his wife.

“If travelling with Dr Watson
has honed your deductive skills,” challenged Freddy, “perhaps you
would care to put them to the test, Countess?”

Miss Blague almost clapped her
hands. She recognized an incisive put down when she heard one and
she’d had enough of the foreign woman who seemed to be garnering
all the male attention. “Oh, yes, please do,” she encouraged in a
sweet voice.

“Click-click,” warned Batty.

“Yes!” expostulated mine host.
“Put your deductive capabilities to the test, Countess. Tell me
something about myself.”

“That is too easy,” intervened
Moriarty. “You are far too famous General de Merville, and the
Countess knows everyone else who is present. Perhaps she might care
to test her deductive skills on me.”

The Countess smiled wryly at his
subterfuge. It was a common party trick played on a gullible
gathering usually by a fraudulent medium or so-called psychic in
concert with their secret sidekick. “The Colonel is too
transparent,” she dismissed neatly, though she could easily have
revealed a few things he might prefer to keep to himself, such as
what he actually did for a living and how his father truly met his
death. “I will take the General up on his offer but I will not make
mention of his illustrious military record which is known to
all.”

The General hadn’t enjoyed
himself this much since the battle of the Khyber Pass. “Go ahead,”
he invited smugly. “Tell me what I did prior to my guests arriving
this evening.”

The Countess hardly needed to
gather her thoughts. The puzzle was child’s play. “You went out
into the garden through the doors leading from your study and there
on the terrace you smoked a premium brand Havana cigar, possibly a
Montecristo or Macanudo, no, an oscuro, most likely a double
Maduro, even though you promised your daughter you would not smoke
until after dinner. Your Afghan hound was with you. You cut your
hand on a rose bush when your daughter came to inform you Colonel
Moriarty would be running late as there was a storm in the English
Channel and his ship would be delayed.”

General de Merville was
speechless; his throat felt as dry as a desert mirage. He drained
his glass of Madeira and signalled for the footman to refill it.
“My God! The woman is a witch!”

“Is she right?” pursued
Dolly.

“Is she wrong?” begged Miss
Blague.

“She is spot on! I don’t know
how she did it!” He looked directly across at his daughter. “Did
you tell the Countess what transpired before our guests
arrived?”

“Not at all papa,” assured Miss
de Merville with a reproving look of sad disappointment. “You
promised me you wouldn’t smoke before our guests arrived.”

Red-faced, the General turned to
his right. “Very well, Countess, explain yourself.”

“It was not difficult to deduce.
I knew you had received a humidor from Major Bruce Blague today as
a gift and since he is not here tonight I guessed the expensive
item was an appeasement for his last-minute absence, though it is a
gift he can easily afford since his tabaqueros produce thousands of
cigars a day at his factory in Florida. Being a club man you would
also be a cigar aficionado, and would have been keen to smoke one
of the premium brand cigars you had just been gifted. You decided
you could not wait until after dinner though it is unusual for a
man of your breeding to smoke prior to dinner whilst wearing his
dinner jacket and not his smoking jacket, which would have absorbed
the odour of the cigar smoke. The cigars would obviously be premium
cigars because Major Blague would not have filled a special humidor
with cheap cigars. A few specks of black ash on your sleeve
indicated an oscuro, the blackest of the Havana cigars. I spotted
it when you refilled my sherry glass. The roasted, peppery scent
indicates a double Maduro. You would have lighted your cigar and
stepped out to the terrace to avoid leaving a tell-tale trail of
cigar smoke for your daughter to notice as she came down the
stairs. You do not like to disappoint her but the new cigars were
too tempting. The upper part of your trousers have some dog hairs
on them, hence I deduced the dog was not a small breed. There is a
photo of you on the hall table. You are in uniform. An Afghan hound
runs in the background. I presumed the dog was yours and you
brought it back from Afghanistan. As for the fresh cuts on your
hand - I noticed the rambler roses on the wall of your house as I
was approaching the front door. There was a terrace there, set
back, from which some French doors opened. It was the side of the
house from whence the men appeared after they had been in the study
to view the humidor. You would not have cut your hand had you been
merely smoking at your leisure so something caused you to brush up
quickly against the thorny roses. It is logical to assume your
butler would not have startled you, so I presumed it was your
daughter who came upon you suddenly to give you a message of some
sort. It was most likely something you had not discussed earlier
but which needed to be relayed before your guests arrived. I read
this morning in the weather report of a storm due to hit the
English Channel by midday. If someone was coming by ship across the
Channel they would have been delayed. A telegraph might have been
sent by such a guest once they landed on the coast, a guest with
good manners who was running late and who did not wish to cause
offence but who wanted to let his hosts know he still intended to
come. By the way, I suggest you get your right eye checked. Your
left eye is good but your right eye is giving you trouble. I know
this because when you look to the guests on your left you angle
your head only slightly but when you turn to converse with those on
the right you angle your head substantially, as if to view them
with both eyes.”

“By God! I have never heard
anything like it!”

Miss de Merville clapped and
Dolly joined in.

“Click-click,” said Batty,
smiling broadly.

Miss Blague looked like she
might weep.

The ladies, taking their cue
from Miss de Merville, retired to the drawing room, while the men
stayed to pass around the port. The butler was instructed to bring
the humidor from the study and then make himself scarce. By now all
the men were keen to sample a double Maduro oscuro, except for
Batty who became asthmatic in a room full cigar smoke. He sought
the General’s leave to join the ladies.

“Namby-pamby,” declared the
war-hardened soldier when the other had left the dining room. He
lighted up his second cigar for the night, twirling it gently until
it glowed red; he might even have a third after his guests
departed.

“Well, what did you make of that
hocus-pocus performance, James?” said Freddy, filling his friend’s
port glass to the top.

“Quite simple once she pointed
it all out. Most of us see without observing; we hear without
listening.”

“That foreign witch would make a
damn good spy,” interjected the General, leaning back in his chair.
“She would bamboozle those Boers in no time. You can take her to
the Transvaal with you once you get that posting, Freddy. Top up my
glass while you are at it, there’s a good lad. I’ll be back in a
minute – a call of nature.”

Freddy watched the old boy go.
“Hell! I won’t be taking a posting. Rorke’s Drift was a
slaughterhouse. As soon as the Earl carks it I’ll be putting a gold
ring on Violet’s finger and doing the grand tour with my bride. Of
course, in the meantime, I might just amuse myself with the foreign
witch. I’m guessing she smokes cigarillos and you know what they
say about women who -”

“I’ll shoot you.”

“What?”

“If you make a move on the
Countess I’ll put a bullet straight through that stupid skull.”

Freddy laughed but the tinny
sound fell flat. “Don’t be daft! What’s got into you?”

“Nothing’s got into me.”

“We can share her, if you like.
Remember that little foreign baggage in Biarritz?”

“She’s out of bounds to you. I
won’t say it again.”

“My God, you sound smitten! What
happened to the bastard Irish -”

“Shut up, Freddy.”

“Oh, I get it! It’s the money!
But you’d be better off with Miss Mona Blague. She’s rolling in it
and
she’s a virgin. Not soiled goods. The Countess is a
widow. Her husband was a drunken scoundrel. No telling what bad
habits were formed during that marriage. Australia is a land of
piss-pots and sheep-stealers – convicts the lot of them. And she’s
a foundling, you know. The Count of Odessos adopted her and then
died a few years later. She inherited everything. Not that I’m
saying she had anything to do with his death. But it was very
convenient. She was raised by a mad step-aunt who was a bit of a
firebrand. That accounts for her rebellious uppity ways. She thinks
nothing of gallivanting around the world with that pathetic
Scottish doctor. God only knows what they get up to! She’s trouble,
mark my words. Plus her origins are shady. Bad blood will out in
the end. I wouldn’t risk it, James.”

“Say another word, Freddy, and I
shall make sure your wedding night is very disappointing for your
bride. I have my gun cocked under the table and it is pointing at
your dick.”

Freddy gulped. “Calm down,
James! Good God! I’m just trying to give you some good advice! Man
to man!”

The General reappeared. “Man to
man! That’s my sort of conversation. That Countess stirs my blood.
I might even consider matrimony again. What are we discussing,
gentlemen?”

Colonel Moriarty eased his
finger off the trigger. “Damned good Havanas! I have never smoked
anything finer!”

The General took a satisfying
puff. “That Countess is the first woman I’ve ever met who knows the
foggiest about Havanas. Most women wouldn’t be able to tell a cigar
from a pencil if they were both on fire. Do you think she knows
what she’s talking about regarding this murder and the chap who
tossed those fire crackers? By golly! I’d like to get hold of
him!”

Moriarty pocketed his revolver
before squaring his sights firmly on his friend. “I’m not sure if
she knows anything or not. What do you think, Freddy?”

“I cannot imagine she knows
anything at all,” said Freddy, holding off his friend’s gaze.
“Nailing an assassin or a cold-blooded killer is not a guessing
game. It’s not as easy as one of those daft parlour games the
ladies are so fond of where everyone has to memorise what’s on a
tray and then guess the missing item. Scotland Yard is at a loss. I
cannot see how a mere woman can do any better.”

“Do we believe in the innocence
of the Prince Regent?” asked the General.

“Absolutely!” said Freddy
unequivocally.

“It depends,” said Moriarty. “If
Miss Quilligan was a prostitute then her brutal death invites
suspicion. The connection to the Ripper will always leave room for
doubt. If she was out and about writing graffiti, well, the Prince
Regent would hardly go about gutting women who are simply bad
spellers. And since the Prince Regent did not toss the fire
crackers at the rally he is hardly likely to be interested in what
Miss Quilligan saw. But, of course, if he put someone up to tossing
the fire crackers, well, that is another matter.”

“Mmm, yes, some good points
raised there, Colonel Moriarty. I cannot fathom what Bertie would
have against women’s rallies, he is not like his father, a good
manly chap that one, taken early in life, still it has all worked
out for the best as far as I am concerned regarding my daughter. I
didn’t want Violet going to any more rallies and now I can forbid
her for her own safety. The longer the fire cracker man remains at
large the longer I can keep her away from those blasted suffrage
meetings. Lucky that Freddy was on hand to rescue her. I shall
never forget that act of bravery. I shall speak to Hawksmoor
tomorrow.”

“Don’t be hasty,” said Freddy,
knocking black ash into a cut-glass ash tray. “I refuse to take up
a posting until this business is over. Violet may go back to her
suffrage meetings any day now and she needs a strong protector to
look out for her.”