The Curse of the Singing Wolf (19 page)

“What the hell is he playing
at?” fumed von Gunn as he and the others crept out from behind
their hiding places.

Moriarty, ever vigilant and
innately suspicious, sent Xenia to watch one set of stairs and
Fedir to watch the other lest the toreador be part of a clever
trap. Only then did he join the party.

Velazquez was shaking like a
leaf, terrified out of his wits. His dark eyes were darting from
one person to another, looking at them as if they were demons. Dr
Watson, feeling vindicated in his decision to hold fire, brought
the man a chair before he fainted clear away. The servant took the
weight off his legs and hung his head to avoid further eye
contact.

“What the hell are you doing
sneaking around at midnight?” demanded Reichenbach.

Velazquez began to stutter.
“I…I came to…to…”

The Countess had seen him lick
his lips and glance desperately at the bottles on the sideboard.
“He came to get a drink,” she said.

“The cognac!” blurted von Gunn,
checking the two bottles on the sideboard. One almost empty and one
still unopened.

“I think you came up here last
night too,” guessed the Countess, directing her statement at
Velazquez. “Is that right?”

The handsome toreador nodded,
hardly able to bring himself to believe the lengths rich people
would go to preserve a few mouthfuls of cognac.

“Bastard!” shouted von Gunn. “I
thought the bottle of cognac looked emptier this morning.” He
raised his fist to strike the toreador but Moriarty caught it.

“Calm down!” he cautioned.
“Don’t you see what this means?”

“The man is a thief!” gurgled
von Gunn angrily, breaking free from the Colonel’s vice-like grip.
“That’s what it means!”

“A thief
and
a coward!”
denounced Reichenbach, siding with the German.

“Why are you standing up for
him, Moriarty?” challenged the Prince, making it three against
one.

The Countess came to the
Colonel’s aid. “Because it means Velazquez was roaming the castle
last night when our hostess went missing.”

“So?” said the von Gunn, still
thinking about cognac.

“He probably killed her!”
condemned the Prince, grabbing the wrong end of the stick. “A
thief, a coward
and
a murderer!”

“Tie him to the chair,”
instructed Reichenbach. “I will soon beat the truth out of
him.”

“Why make a mess of the hall?”
said the Prince. “That’s what torture chambers were designed
for.”

Von Gunn stepped forward. “Help
me drag him down there, Orczy, and then Reichenbach can get to
work. He’ll soon force the truth out of him.”

Velazquez fainted from sheer
terror, a wet patch appeared between his legs as he thudded to the
floor.

Dr Watson had decided to take
no part of such intimidation and had gone to re-start the fire, but
sickened by what he heard, he could remain silent no longer. “I
will not be party to this. You cannot torture this man. You have no
proof he is guilty of killing anyone.”

Reichenbach gave a dismissive
laugh. “Settle down, Doctor. I have no intention of torturing the
poor fellow. I was just trying to scare him into confessing, as
were my two compatriots. For, as the Countess just pointed out, he
was roaming the castle last night, thus it stands to reason he is
the main suspect. If the Singing Wolf caught him in the act of
stealing the cognac or perhaps the silver candlesticks he may have
lashed out and killed her unintentionally. Let us find out.”

Von Gunn was fervently nodding.
“We cannot let this moment pass. What is the alternative, comrades?
That we clear out of here in a day or two, provided we survive, and
leave the remains of our hostess to rot? What if she isn’t
dead?”

Moriarty heaved a sigh. “I
agree with that, we not only have a death, we have a missing body.
That is worse than a death. Let’s revive him and see what he as to
say?”

“Now you’re talking sense,”
praised the Prince. “The unknown is worse than the known. We owe it
to our hostess to find out what happened.”

“Very well,” conceded Dr
Watson, “I agree to Baron Reichenbach questioning Velazquez but I
will not stand idly by if things turn ugly. The Countess should
retire to her chamber now.”

“I will not be retiring
anywhere,” she stated firmly. “You missed my point completely,
gentlemen. I meant that Velazquez may have seen or heard something
while he was stealing a drink. I don’t for a minute believe he
killed our hostess. He does not know the castle well enough to hide
the body leaving no trace. And I don’t believe the old couple did
it either. They have something to hide, yes, but I do not think
they are murderers. If you will grant me five or ten minutes with
Velazquez before you interrogate him I would be grateful.”

“Alone?” quizzed Von Gunn
dubiously.

The Prince laughed crudely.
“Would you like to question him in your bedchamber?”

“Shut-up!” snapped
Moriarty.

The Prince would not be
deterred. “You can question me second!”

“And me third!” laughed
Reichenbach.

“We will be over here by the
fire,” said Dr Watson, unamused.

The handsome toreador began to
revive.

The Countess was secretly
enjoying proceedings. Nothing got her juices flowing quicker than a
mystery. She had a first rate mystery on her hands and the company
of five interesting men, four of them intriguing, one of them a
potential lover. Oh, yes, being a widow was simply wonderful! Had
she been unmarried such a trip would have been out of the question,
scandalous, utterly impossible, and had she been still married it
would simply not have happened. Widowhood was wonderful! Rich
widowhood was even better! She practically whirled her way to the
sideboard.

“Colonel Moriarty,” she
entreated, “would you be so good as to pour everyone a shot of
cognac, including Velazquez. It may help to settle fraught
nerves.”

“And will you also take a
measure, Countess?”

Yes,” she said. “Yes, I believe
I will though my nerves are just fine.”

“I can see that for myself,” he
returned blandly. “An heiress three times over and nerves of steel
– be still my beating heart.”

She would have laughed but Dr
Watson was watching closely, a scowl souring his vinegar face
adding no end of grief to his vat of worries. He only enjoyed
mysteries once they were solved. She was definitely her father’s
daughter – it was the pursuit, the unravelling and the challenge
that made life worth living. Nothing else mattered.

Velazquez crawled back into his
seat to await his fate. She tossed him a cushion to cover his lap.
It was important for a man, even a servant, to maintain his
dignity. She then passed him a glass of cognac. He glanced
fearfully at the men by the fire.

“Fear not,” she reassured,
emptying her own glass in front of him to show it was not their
intention to poison him. “The men were only jesting with you. Drink
up and have another one.” She waited till he gulped down the first
then refilled his glass and watched as he downed the second. His
hand was shaking more than usual. “Now,” she began, adopting a
gentle maternal tone, “perhaps you could think back to last night
when you stole up here to the great hall to have a drink after
everyone had gone to bed. Can you remember if you saw or heard
anything out of the ordinary that might shed some light on the
disappearance of your mistress?”

He didn’t say anything for a
moment and she took that as a positive sign. He was thinking about
something, possibly weighing up whether it was worth telling, or
even if he should mention it at all. If he had not seen or heard
anything he would have been happy to say so at once. It would have
been a relief to declare his ignorance in the matter. But he
hesitated. She refilled his glass and passed it to him and waited
patiently. She wondered if his eyes might drift to one of the men
by the fire thus implicating that man in something underhand but
his eyes drifted to the other side of the great hall where Xenia
had been posted.

“Did you hear a noise?” she
encouraged, lowering her tone.

The colour returned to his
swarthy face and he nodded. “Yes, I heard voices.”

“Voices?”

“Coming from over there.” He
indicated the archway leading to the spiral stairs. Fedir had been
posted to the opposite archway that led down to the kitchens
because, naturally, that is where Moriarty expected the attack to
come from.

“The voice of your
mistress?”

“Yes, I recognized hers and
there was one other.”

“A man’s voice.”

“I did not recognize it.”

“Were they speaking normally to
each other?”

“No, they were angry but they
were not shouting. It was more like the quiet anger of deep hatred.
Not the fury of the volcano but the black pit of despair.”

“Did you hear anything that was
said?”

His handsome brow puckered. “I
thought I heard the deeper voice say: lack or black.”

“The man’s voice?”

“Yes, and then I heard…”

“What?” she prompted when he
pressed his sensual Spanish lips together.

“I cannot say in front of a
lady.”

In her head she began to
eliminate the sorts of things he
would
be able to say in
front of a lady – singing, dancing, laughing – Oh! Of course! “You
heard the sounds of love-making?”

He looked relieved and
nodded.

“You heard heavy
breathing?”

“Yes.”

“Panting?”

“Yes.”

“You know what female pleasure
sounds like?”

This handsome toreador had the
grace to blush. “Yes, there was much sound from the throat of a
woman pleasured.”

The Countess glanced at the
five men by the fireplace. Which one? Which one? According to her
late step-aunt appearances could be deceiving. Mild mannered,
bookish, soft-spoken men could be excellent lovers and swaggering
lotharios were often the most selfish and least satisfying.

“You didn’t hear any
names?”

He shook his head.

“What happened then? Did the
love-making go on or did it stop?”

“It goes more, there is much
roughness, the breathing, the panting, the gagging of the woman who
begs for more…and then…it stops.”

“Did the man come down the
stairs?”

He scratched his head. “No,
there is a clanking noise.”

“Like the clanking of
chains?”

He shook his head. “A clanking
noise – just once – like something heavy is dropped on the
stones.”

“Did this noise come from
upstairs or from downstairs?”

“Upstairs.”

“Are you sure of that?” She
wondered if he might suddenly be confusing the direction of the
sound, and in his imagination connecting the two sounds that were
not in fact connected. There was a well downstairs with a handle
for lowering and raising the bucket. The cranking sound might sound
like a clanking sound. The bucket might bang against the side of
the well. The stairwell might distort the echo. The great hall came
midway in the spiral staircase between the chamber with the well
and the bedchamber of the Singing Wolf.

“I get a fright and go closer
to listen. I lift tapestry and hear more noises but not like
before. There is scraping sound, like something dragging on the
stones. I go quickly down the stairs to my room and go to
sleep.”

The only problem with his
statement was that she knew the bed had not been subject to rough
love-making. However, she could not dismiss it out of hand. There
had been numerous times Jack had taken her on the daybed in her
boudoir to avoid getting a wet patch on her freshly laundered
sheets. There had also been moments of savage passion when he had
taken her on the rug in front of the fire or on the chaise longue
and once when he had simply pushed her up against the wall. The
memory of such passionate incidences supported Velazquez’ statement
rather than negated it. If the love-making had happened not in the
bed but nearer the door the sound might carry down the stairs and
that’s why he’d heard it.

The Countess now had a dilemma
on her hands. The moment she revealed what Velazquez just told her
about the sounds he heard in the bedchamber then the secret lover
who had been with the Singing Wolf yet claimed not to have seen her
from the time the four men left the great hall would be exposed as
a liar. She leaned closer and lowered her voice.

“Are you sure about what you
heard?”

“Yes,” he vowed, crossing
himself. “I swear on my mother’s grave.”

“And you have no idea which man
it was?”

“None.” His eyes now drifted to
the fireplace where the five men stood together, and she could see
the flicker of fear. “If you tell them what I say I am dead
man.”

She gave him another drink. He
was going to need it.

“Our turn,” declared
Reichenbach, growing impatient with the secretive line of
questioning. This was clearly men’s business and women should play
no part in it. They had humoured the Countess long enough.

“Let’s get the truth out of
him,” said von Gunn with sadistic relish.

The men were helping themselves
to a second measure of cognac prior to interrogating the terrified
toreador when Xenia signalled with her hand. She heard a noise on
the stairs.

In a wink the candles were
extinguished and darkness flooded the hall except for the embers
which glowed red once more. Guns at the ready, the men took up
their earlier positions. Velazquez took cover with the women behind
the settee. It was now he understood they had not been lying in
wait for him but for someone else. And that someone could only be
Sarazan. He tried not to wet himself a second time. Someone was
definitely moving on the stairs but the footsteps were coming down
not going up! Had one of Sarazen’s men managed to scale the walls
and squeeze through the lancet window in the latrine? Was this
person now coming to unbolt the front door and the main gate to
allow his fellow brigands in? Or did a secret tunnel lead right up
to the top of the south tower, perhaps inside a buttress, thus
catching by surprise whoever was holed up inside the castle
expecting an attack to come from below?