The Curse of the Singing Wolf (15 page)

Von Gunn was not convinced.
“You did not see her in the evening?”

“No, signor, I was put to work
in the kitchens and that is where I stayed.”

“You did not help with the
bags?”

“No, signor, the other servants
took the bags to the rooms because they knew where to take them.
They prepared the baths and the fires too. I did not leave the
kitchens.”

“Did you carry wood into the
great hall last night?”

“No signor, I was told
plentiful wood was there already.”

“What about this morning?”

“Yes, signor, I carted wood to
the great hall this morning and laid the kindling to start the fire
but I did not see the mistress.”

“You did not help with clearing
the plates last night?”

“No, signor, Velazquez and Inez
served the dinner and cleared the plates. I stayed in the
kitchens.”

Prince Orczy interrupted. “What
is the point of this line of questioning, von Gunn? You are barking
up the wrong tree. The boy was stuck down here in the kitchens. He
has told you so three times already. How many times do you need to
hear it? My throat is parched. It’s time for a drink.”

Von Gunn grunted something
unsavoury that it was better for the Prince not to hear. “Not yet.
I want to speak to that ugly fat Negress. If you want to hurry
things along then go and question the old man and his wife.”

“What would they know?” argued
the Prince hotly while gazing thirstily at his bottle of wine. “One
is half deaf and the other half blind. If they suspected foul play
regarding their mistress they would have said something by
now.”

Von Gunn marched off to the
scullery where Desi was drying the dishes with a linen cloth. She
had heard the exchange between the two men. She had heard all that
Milo had said. She knew it was her turn to be interrogated. She
resolved to show no fear, nor resentment, which was trickier for
she had heard the gross insult.

“When did you last see your
mistress?”

The German could not see the
point of varying his interrogation or altering his tone. He was not
very imaginative and the idea of catching flies using either
vinegar or honey never occurred to him – if he wanted to swat a fly
he smashed it with whatever was to hand.

A precious Limoges dish almost
slipped between slippery fat fingers but Desi steadied in time. “I
saw the mistress last when we arrived here at this place and I came
down to the kitchens.”

“You did not see her in the
evening?”

“No, monsieur.”

“You did not help to clear the
table?”

“No, monsieur.”

“You did not help with the
unpacking of her bags?”

“No, monsieur.”

“What about this morning?”

“No, monsieur.”

Von Gunn scowled. “No,
monsieur, what?”

Desi looked momentarily
confused. “No, monsieur, I did not see the mistress this
morning.”

Von Gunn was growing
increasingly exasperated. “Do you think it odd that your mistress
has not been seen since last night?”

“No, monsieur.”

“You do not think it odd?”

“No, monsieur, I do not
think.”

Von Gunn stomped out of the
scullery cursing stupid blacks, especially the female of the
species. Slavery should never have been abolished. The world would
rue the day. He found Orczy interrogating the old couple and he
could see by their averted eyes that they had something to hide.
Orczy could see it too and flashed him a warning to shut-up. He
leaned against the door jamb and listened.

“How often did your mistress
come to Chanteloup?”

The old man briefly lifted his
gaze, his eyes looked cloudy and filmy – he must have been the one
half blind and his wife the one half deaf.

“Whenever it suited her to
come, monsieur.”

“Did she ever bring anyone with
her?”

The old man shook his head.

“What did she do when she
stayed here?”

The old man seemed not to
understand the question.

Orczy repeated it.

“She is mistress of Chanteloup
– she does as it pleases her.”

“Yes, yes,” said Orczy
impatiently, changing direction. “Do you have any idea where she
might have gone?”

The old man shook his head.

“Was she in the habit of going
walking or horse riding?”

The old man shook his head.

Von Gunn goose-stepped toward
the kitchen table. “Look at me when I address you. Are there any
secret tunnels inside the castle?”

The old man lifted his eyes
without lifting his head, neither he nor his wife flinched. Von
Gunn had been watching carefully for a tell-tale sign of guilt and
felt instantly disappointed. It is possible the old woman did not
hear him clearly though he had made a point of speaking volubly.
The old man struck him was a wily old retainer, loyal unto death,
part of the old medieval school of servants who could be relied
upon to take a secret to the grave. They did not make servants like
that anymore. His servants were a lazy shiftless lot, no sense of
loyalty or pride in their work. The Countess’s maid and manservant
looked as if they were cut from the same loyal cloth as these two.
Serfs were born that way. He had heard that some had refused to
forego serving their masters even after being granted their
freedom. It is little wonder the word slaves was derived from
Slavs. So many were sold into slavery by their rulers they peopled
the world with blonde hair and blue eyes. The old man and woman had
probably been here at Chanteloup all their lives. If there was a
secret tunnel they would know of it, but how to pry it out of them
– that was the question.

“How long until dinner is
served?” asked the Prince, always thinking of gratifying his
immediate needs and baser instincts.

The old woman turned to look at
the piglet turning on the spit. “Within the hour,
monsieur
.”

The two men turned their backs
on the kitchen without realizing the old woman had no difficulty
hearing the question that was put to no one in particular.

“How long have you been
acquainted with Dr Watson?”

The Countess did not fear
Moriarty’s question. It was not her association with the doctor
that she need have any qualms about.

“Two months.”

He looked surprised. “May I ask
how you met?”

“We met at an unrolling party
in Belgravia. It was quite a disaster for our hostess, Lady
Fanshawe. The Egyptian mummy who was thought to be female at the
commencement of proceedings turned out to be neither female nor an
Egyptian mummy – just a cadaver from an unconsecrated cemetery
somewhere in Southwark.”

He didn’t pick up on the topic
of Egyptian mummies though she had provided him with the perfect
opening and it was a hot topic among the London beau monde. She
braced for further probing.

“It seems an unlikely
friendship.”

“Most good friendships
are.”

He found something interesting
in the speed of the return statement. “There is hope for another
good friendship then.”

“Between us, you mean?”

“Yes, I’m sure I have even less
in common with you than Dr Watson.”

She laughed lightly. “In that
case we shall be lifelong friends.”

They had reached the west wing
where the four men had their bedchambers. At the end of the
corridor were a garderobe and an iron-studded door that opened onto
the ramparts. The rooms were large for they must have originally
garrisoned small armies of men who could be quickly mobilized to
fend off an attack. They were also devoid of architectural
ornamentation, but the austerity was disguised by sumptuously
embroidered bed hangings, Flemish tapestries, Turkey rugs, a
richness of painted Italian furniture and a large stone fireplace.
Each of the bedrooms varied little in size and shape. They did not
take long to search. There were no secret doorways. A quick check
under the bed, inside storage chests, armoires, and travelling
trunks revealed no hidden body. It was the personal items that
distinguished one man’s room from another.

Moriarty did not proclaim: This
is my bedchamber. He simply allowed her to guess from the clothing
and male accoutrements. She remembered his gold tie pin shaped like
a shamrock and the monogrammed gold cufflinks: engraved JIM – James
Isambard Moriarty – Jim short for James, a playful wink at his name
and initials in one.

The garderobe was essentially a
walk-in cloak closet with a hole in the floor which angled away
from the castle walls in order to drain the effluent and excrement.
The hole was fitted part way down with a heavy iron grate so that
even if an enemy combatant could scale the vertical walls he could
not gain entry into the castle. Their hostess had placed a wooden
seat around the hole for comfort and provided a porcelain bowl, a
ewer of rose-scented water and a stack of linen towels. Bath water
was used to flush the garderobes at the end of each day and the
stones were luminous with centuries-old fluorescent green moss.

“November is an unusual time to
sojourn in Biarritz,” commented Moriarty as they crossed the great
hall and made their way to the east wing.

Here again were four large
bedchambers and a garderobe coming off a long corridor with an
iron-studded door at the end opening onto the ramparts. Dr Watson’s
room came first, followed by that of the Countess, then her maid
and manservant. She always made a point of having her servants
sleep as close as possible to her own bedchamber. If there was no
adjoining dressing room with day bed, she insisted on a box room or
small secondary bedroom. If she stayed in a hotel she reserved
extra rooms on the same floor so that her servants could remain
nearby. If only one room was available, Fedir and Xenia pretended
to be husband and wife. They were in fact brother and sister and
felt no shame in sharing. They had been with her for as long as she
could remember, acting as childhood companions, bodyguards and
servants as the need arose.

“Dr Watson has been battling a
chest infection for some time and I thought a rest cure in Biarritz
might be just the thing before winter set in.”

“He is lucky to have found such
a glamorous travelling companion to look out for his health. I am
jealous.”

“I’m sure you have had your
fair share of glamorous travelling companions, including those who
cared for your health?”

“It would be disingenuous to
pretend otherwise, nevertheless, I am still jealous.”

The Countess always found
candour disarming and dangerously attractive. That’s probably what
attracted her to her roguish husband. Such types were rare. More
common were flatterers, gigolos and playboys who dissembled for a
living and elevated disingenuousness to an artform. Her late
husband would have called them bullshit artists! Moriarty was also
intelligent, another dangerous quality in a man. It rendered him
doubly dangerous. She warned herself against falling for his easy
Irish charm. He had done enough probing. It was her turn.

“What brought you to
Biarritz?”

His response was laconic, open
and honest, yet did not give much away. “I could say the weather
but the west wind off the Atlantic at this time of year would soon
prove the lie. I could say the gambling but there are better
casinos. I could say the opera but there are better operas. To be
honest, the four of us, meaning Orczy, Reichenbach, von Gunn and
myself, always come to Biarritz at this time of year.”

“You always stay at the Hotel
Louve?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you known the
Singing Wolf?”

“Seven years.”

“So you have been coming to
Biarritz for seven years?”

“Yes.”

“And the other three men?”

“The same.”

It was time to take a risk.
“Are you all in love with the Singing Wolf?”

She expected a heated denial
and was surprised when he confirmed her daring question instead.
“We used to be, but I do not believe that is the case any longer,
well, not for me anyhow, and I think I can speak for the others
when I say they are no longer in her thrall.”

“Yet you still come to
Biarritz?”

“You find that curious?”

“I do.”

“Men are creatures of habit,
most are not very imaginative, they tend to invent a tradition and
then stick to it as if their lives depend upon it. Our journey to
Biarritz could best be described as a pilgrimage, the original
purpose of which is lost in the mists of time.”

“You make is sound like an act
of worship.”

“Is this Dr Watson’s room?”

“Yes.”

“I do not believe the doctor is
concealing a corpse but let us take a quick look in the interests
of thoroughness.”

Dr Watson was an excessively
tidy man. It probably stemmed from his military service and medical
background. Compared to the previous four rooms where clothes were
in slight disarray, hanging over the backs of chairs, cufflinks and
tie pins scattered on top of chests of drawers, boots and shoes
tossed haphazardly into corners, this room was in perfect order. To
be fair, Fedir enjoyed acting as valet to the doctor and had tidied
up anything the doctor may have omitted to put away.

“Dr Watson travels light,”
observed Moriarty, opening and closing drawers in a desultory way.
“Did you travel from Southampton directly to Biarritz?”

“No, we travelled from Glasgow.
We were staying in York after visiting Scotland. Dr Watson was
instrumental in solving the Lammermoor Golf Course murders in the
Borders and the Penny Dreadful murders in York. You may have heard
of them. The doctor used to partner the famous consulting
detective, Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

She had decided to come clean.
A man like Colonel Moriarty would check up on her relationship with
Dr Watson the moment he could get to a telegraph office and put his
bloodhounds to the scent. If she didn’t mention the murders they
had solved together he would immediately know she had something to
hide. She tried to sound wide-eyed and in awe of her travelling
companion, the second fiddle in an amateur sleuthing
theatrical.