The Curse of the Singing Wolf (18 page)

“You presume it will not come
from the front door?” put von Gunn.

They all turned to look at the
heavy iron-studded door and noticed that the bolts were not in
place. No one had bothered to lock it. Dr Watson moved quickly to
remedy the oversight.

“It would take a battering ram
to get through there,” he asserted, sounding a lot more confident
than he felt.

They moved to the settees by
the fire and passed around the humidor. The bottle of cognac that
von Gunn had brought up from the cellar remained unopened. By the
time Inez and Velazquez arrived to clear the table the six guests
appeared comfortably sated, puffing on their cigars. No one wanted
dessert and the apple tart was taken back down to the kitchen. But
the coffee was welcomed and Baron Reichenbach, sensing it was going
to be a long night, asked for another two pots to be sent up.

Orczy suggested a game of cards
to help pass the time until the servants retired for the night.
Moriarty and the Countess begged off. The four men adjourned to a
corner of the library.

“Do you work for a living,
Colonel Moriarty?” posed the Countess as soon as she was alone with
the Irishman, having pondered a good deal about Dr Watson’s remark
regarding criminal empires and the control of.

He did not take offence at her
probing. “I would like to say I am independently wealthy but that
is not the case. I’m a speculator.”

“What sort of speculator?”

“The sort who makes money.”

“Is there anything in
particular you speculate in – art, books, property, stocks, railway
bonds, government bonds?” She refrained from adding bank robbery,
murder on demand, extortion and so on, though to be fair he had so
far behaved impeccably and if she was about to find herself under
attack from brigands she could not think of a better champion to
have at her side. That went for the other men as well. There was
not a coward among them.

“All of the aforesaid – and
every penny has been ploughed into the family folly known as
Ballyfolly in Ballygally Bay, county Antrim, Ireland - a
spectacular ruin that I have decided to make my life’s work. If you
know of any heiresses with matrimony in mind do not hesitate to
point them in my direction for it is universally acknowledged that
a woman in possession of a large fortune is in need of a husband to
relieve her of it.”

The Countess laughed. “A nice
paraphrasing of Miss Austin but as someone in possession of a large
fortune I can assure you the last thing a woman needs is a husband
to relieve her of it.”

“I am under the impression you
have two large fortunes.”

“Who told you that?”

“Orczy was acquainted with your
step-father and step-aunt. He assures me you inherited both their
fortunes.”

“You have been misinformed. I
am, in fact, in possession of three large fortunes. My late husband
was an extremely wealthy man. I have extensive land-holdings in
Australia from which I derive a substantial income.”

“In that case I would deprive
you of only one fortune. You could keep the other two.”

“I prefer to keep all
three.

“More’s the pity.”

She decided to change the
subject. His disarming charm was becoming alarmingly attractive. If
she wasn’t careful she would end up bankrolling a folly and have no
fortune at all.

“Do you think the rockslide was
deliberate?”

“Engineered to stop us
leaving?”

“Yes.”

He gave it a quick thought and
shook his head. “No, the rockfall was substantial. If not for the
dry moat the entire barbican gate might have collapsed. The fire,
however, I have given some considerable thought to and I believe
you are right. It was deliberately lit. The speed with which our
hostess had us all up here suggests this trip was planned in
advance.”

“That theory is substantiated
by the bedchambers.”

“The bedchambers?”

“Our hostess was a
self-confessed recluse. This was her private sanctuary. She
described it as her mountain retreat. Yet there are four guest
rooms in the west wing all beautifully furnished, plus four more in
the east wing which are comfortable but not sumptuous. It is my
guess the four bedrooms in the west wing were decorated
specifically for each of you. Your bedroom, for instance, has
paintings of Ireland and is decorated in emerald green. Herr von
Gunn’s has a Germanic feel and is decorated in burgundy. Baron
Reichenbach’s has a lot of medieval hardware such as swords and
shields and is decorated in Prussian blue. Prince Orczy’s room
features some small European masterpieces and is decorated in royal
purple.”

He regarded her with
astonishment. “Bloody hell! You’re right!”

She ignored the profanity. “The
Singing Wolf was not expecting Dr Watson or me to be on this trip.
Our rooms are comfortable but not on a par. There are no expensive
artworks, the candlesticks are wooden, and the furniture is
mis-matched. There’s just one problem.”

“What?”

“Why go to all that trouble and
then disappear?”

Later that same evening
Countess Volodymyrovna informed her two servants of the plan that
had been hatched at the dinner table. She sent Xenia and Fedir back
down to the kitchens to keep watch. It was ten minutes before
eleven when the pair returned to the great hall to inform her that
the other servants had taken themselves off to bed and that the
doors leading into the courtyard from the kitchen, laundry room and
scullery had been bolted. This was only slightly reassuring for the
thought of a secret tunnel lingered at the back of everyone’s
mind.

The return of Fedir and Xenia
triggered a frenzy of activity. Bedding was dragged into the hall
to create makeshift beds. Guns were checked and ammunition was
counted.

“Don’t waste your bullets,
gentlemen,” advised Reichenbach. “We don’t have an unlimited
supply.”

“Are you thinking there will be
more than one attack?” asked Dr Watson, thinking ahead to the next
night and then the one after that with a terrible sinking
feeling.

“It’s not something we can
discount,” added the Baron grimly.

“Then we should aim to kill as
many as possible tonight,” responded von Gunn. “I say an all-out
assault should be our plan. Spare no bullets. Let Sarazan know we
mean business.”

“How many brigands did Sarazan
have?” posed the Countess. “You got the best look as they
retreated, Colonel Moriarty. How many would you say?”

“I’d estimate there were about
fifteen.”

“That’s not many,” said the
Prince optimistically. “We should see them off easily. One bullet
will have them fleeing down the stairs.”

“That’s not a good strategy,”
countered the Colonel unequivocally. “We should let as many as
possible enter the great hall before we open fire. If we allow them
to flee back down the stairs we will not be able to follow without
endangering our own lives. Once we break cover and give chase we
are lost.”

“We also then open ourselves up
to a long siege,” predicted the Countess. “Sarazan can sit it out
for as long as it takes. He will simply wait for us to run out of
ammunition or starve to death. I suggest one person gives the word
to shoot. We should all hold fire until the signal is given.”

“I can do that,” volunteered
von Gunn.

The Baron got his back up at
once. “You have no military experience. Manufacturing munitions is
not the same as leading a battle charge. My military record speaks
for itself. My family history goes back to Charlemagne. I should
give the signal.”

“You want to save bullets!”
argued von Gunn vehemently. “You will simply wait until it is too
late and the hall is flooded with brigands! And what has
Charlemagne got to do with Sarazan?”

“I too have military
experience,” chipped in the Prince in an attempt to take the heat
out of the argument. “And though my family tree is not as
illustrious as Reichenbach’s I know how to count to three.”

“This is serious,” interceded
Moriarty, sensing further disagreement. “I can give the signal as I
am unlikely to go off half-cocked.”

“What does that mean?”
challenged the Prince.

“You are a gambler,” reminded
the Colonel, “you will be thinking of the odds instead of thinking
logically.”

“So naturally you want to put
yourself forward!” flushed the Prince.

Moriarty took a deep breath.
“If that does not suit you, Orczy, and to settle this argument
before it gets out of hand, I put forward Dr Watson. He has
military experience and a cool medical head. Who’s in favour?”

A chorus of grumbling settled
it.

Dr Watson was so taken aback he
didn’t know what to say. It was the last thing he expected from the
brother of his best friend’s arch enemy. Perhaps he had misjudged
the man after all. Once the matter of who was to give the signal to
shoot was settled to everyone’s satisfaction, or more properly to
everyone’s dissatisfaction, they got on with preparing their
defensive barriers. The dining table, desk and pews were up-turned
to provide cover and everyone took up their positions. The candles
were then blown out leaving the great hall in darkness except for
the eerie reddish glow from the embers in the cavernous fireplace
and a faint moonbeam from the high lancet window. The only sound
that could be heard was the wind howling around the ramparts.

Just before midnight some
blood-curdling howls broke the silence. This was immediately
followed by a series of violent rumbling noises which shook the
foundations of Chanteloup. It was as if the wolves were giving
forewarning of something stirring within the bowels of the earth.
It would not be the first time animals had sensed an earthquake or
some such natural disaster long before it occurred. No-one was yet
asleep, nerves were too highly strung for slumber. Everyone’s heart
stopped beating for several seconds while the rumbling noises were
processed by over-taxed brains. Reichenbach was the first to
speak.

“It’s another rockslide.”

“I think it was an earthquake
this time,” said von Gunn. “Last time the wolves didn’t howl.”

“Keep your voices down,”
reminded Moriarty. “We’re supposed to be asleep in our beds.”

“It sounded to me like a
section of wall has come down,” hissed von Gunn, heeding the
warning and lowering his tone.

“Sarazan is on his way,”
whispered the Prince ominously.

No one said anything after
that. In the hellish reddish darkness bodies twitched and tensed in
anticipation of imminent attack. Just when muscles were starting to
relax, there came the sound of a footfall on the stone stairs.
Everyone heard it.

Several guns were cocked so
that they were ready to fire when the time came, and so that the
faint triggering sound would not alert Sarazan and his men to the
trap they were walking into.

The Countess’s heart was
beating fast as she and Xenia, pistols in hand, hunkered down
behind the settee. A Deringer pocket pistol is an excellent weapon
for lady to keep in her beaded reticule or the pocket of her cloak
but it is no match for a brigand armed with a repeating rifle. A
pocket pistol can fire only one shot. The two women were painfully
aware of their lack of fire power. Colonel Moriarty must have
realized it too, for he suddenly deserted his post behind the pews
and darted across the great hall to join the ladies. He cupped the
back of the Countess’s head and pressed a kiss in the darkness.

“Did the earth just move for
you?”

“Yes,” she whispered
breathlessly, “but it was somewhat delayed.”

The footfalls reached the top
of the stairs, paused momentarily, then picked up again. Someone
had come up the staircase from the kitchen and was now standing in
the great hall.

How many men were on the stairs
was impossible to tell. The archway that gave entrance was angled
away from the fire which gave off the only light and that only
faintly now the embers were growing cold. Dr Watson felt the
pressure mounting, his heart was pounding and the blood had rushed
to his head. Instead of helping him to think clearly it actually
had the opposite effect. The rush of blood flooded his brain and
overwhelmed him. If he gave the signal too soon it would be as the
Colonel feared and the brigands would flee back down the stairs. If
he waited too long the eight of them might be hopelessly outgunned.
Adding to his dilemma was the fact he had spotted the Colonel fly
across the hall toward the Countess. All his instincts screamed a
warning that she was in mortal danger. Nothing was as it seemed.
Nothing was certain. His eyes sieved the darkness. Something was
moving. A shadow was advancing, but was it Sarazan?

Suddenly an outrageous idea
struck the doctor. What if it was their missing hostess?

He could not dismiss the idea
from his head. He could not give the signal to shoot until he was
sure it was an outlaw. He would not have the death of the Singing
Wolf on his conscience. He strained to see but the more he strained
the less he saw. Blackness had a life of its own. It seemed to move
when it was standing still and stand still when it was moving. It
was all around and yet it was nowhere. It was solid and yet it was
a void. It was everything and nothing at the same time. It was
devilish hard to make out. The shadow crept stealthily forward. It
did not appear to be carrying a weapon. And he was certain there
was just the one shadow. Something wasn’t right.

“Hold fire!” he cried.

The shadow began to sprint back
toward the stairs. Fedir gave chase, pounced and tackled it to the
ground. There was a brief struggle.

In the meantime, several
candles were lit. Darkness was banished and reason returned. Fedir
dragged the man forward into the light.

“It’s Velazquez!” declared
Prince Orczy, sounding as stunned as the others felt.