The Curse of the Singing Wolf (21 page)

“Then he will be
disappointed.”

“He want marry to you.”

“I’m not after a husband.”

“Wait! I come with you!”

The Countess was annoyed with
her maid for speaking out of line, though their relationship had
long ago moved beyond maid and mistress. If truth be told she was
actually annoyed that her maid was right. The Irishman was trouble
and he did want her money and he did want to marry her - he had
declared himself from the start. He played by a different set of
rules to most suitors and it fired her imagination more than she
cared to admit.

“No, stay here and light the
fire. I’m going up to the south tower to speak to Dr Watson. I want
to tell him the doll has gone missing.”

“The Irish – he is there too,”
warned Xenia. “Take care, mistress.”

As she climbed the spiral
stairs the Countess told herself that there was no such thing as
singing phantoms and murderous ghosts and disappearing bodies, she
warned herself not to let her imagination run wild, but she
couldn’t help looking back over her shoulder more than once.

“This one,” she heard Moriarty
say as she entered the bedchamber of the Singing Wolf. He was
holding a bottle of scent for Dr Watson to sniff.

“Yes,” agreed the doctor.
“That’s it. That’s the smell. That means the lunatic who is at
large in the castle was in this room dabbing on perfume as we
barricaded ourselves in the hall.”

“I swear I flew down those
stairs. When I got to the chamber that houses the well the door on
the far side was closed with the bolt drawn this side. They could
not have fled down to the cellar unless they passed right through
the old timbers. The storerooms are lined with open shelving. It
would be impossible to hide and not be seen. And the perfume smell
in the bread room suggests that our phantom entered that room. But
where did they go after that?”

“The bread oven was alight.
They could not have hidden inside. They could not have gone up the
chimney for the same reason. The twin beds had the blankets folded
back. There was nowhere to hide inside the beds and we could see
under the beds clearly.”

“Von Gunn checked the armoire.
There were a few cloaks hanging on hooks but they did not trail to
the floor of the cupboard, so unless the phantom had no legs he or
she could not hide inside. Orczy checked the storage chest. It was
full of old sabots and hats and scarves. I saw when he opened it
and poked about.”

“What about that door at the
end of bread room?”

“I checked that myself. It was
bolted and a small sack of flour was standing in front of it. There
was flour and sawdust on the floor which had not been disturbed. If
someone had darted that way there would have been footprints or
tell-tale marks. The sack had not been placed hurriedly in front of
the door for the same reason. There’s no way that old couple had
time to hide anyone in that room, slide home the bolt and sprinkle
sawdust and flour on the floor. I checked their hands just in case.
They were clean.”

“Where might that door
lead?”

“I believe it leads to the room
Orczy described as a child’s bedroom.”

“Oh, that’s right – the dead
child.”

“Any luck?” said the Countess,
interrupting the men.

“Yes,” said Dr Watson. “This is
the perfume.” He held out an artfully sculptured greenish-blue
glass bottle.

“It’s Lalique,” she said.

“Is that the name of the
fragrance?” checked the Irishman.

“No, it’s the name of the glass
maker – Rene Lalique. He also specializes in Art Nouveau jewellery.
The Princess Roskovsky told me the Singing Wolf never failed to
adorn herself with a piece of Art Nouveau. You can see some pieces
in her casket on the dressing table. They’re dramatic and striking
and angular – a bit like her. The vase on the sideboard in the
great hall is Lalique and so is the altar-piece in the chapel. I
don’t recognize this fragrance. It’s probably an individual parfum
she had blended for herself at a parfumerie in Biarritz.”

Moriarty yawned and strode to
the door. “I’m going to have a kip. Wake me in time for lunch.”

Dr Watson checked the jewellery
casket. “Yes, I see what you mean – the pieces are very bold and
modern. I can’t say I like them. Mary preferred pearls. I wonder
who will inherit this lot. I wonder if our hostess thought about a
Will and Testament.”

The Countess waited for the
footsteps on the stairs to fade before recounting to the doctor all
that Velazquez had told her the previous evening about over-hearing
some loud love-making and suspecting one of the men.

“That means one of the men was
lying about not seeing the Singing Wolf since saying goodnight to
her, hang on, you said the bed hadn’t been slept in” reminded Dr
Watson.

“Yes, I thought about that, but
not everyone has intercourse in bed. In fact, if the intercourse
had not been conducted in bed they would have been closer to the
door and more likely to be overheard.”

“Er, yes,” muttered Dr Watson,
turning pink. “Well, no wonder poor Velazquez bolted. He looked
scared out of his wits last night and when he raced past me today I
could have sworn he thought the devil was after him. Poor chap.
Which man do you think was, er, with our hostess in her room?”

“I have wracked my brains. It
could have been any one of them.”

“Including the Colonel?” he
tested.

“Especially the Colonel!”

“You’re not falling for him,
then?”

“Trust me - I know what I’m
doing.”

“Don’t play games! You might
find you have bitten off more than you can chew when it comes to
clan Moriarty. I think he is dangerous but you know that already. I
don’t trust him one bit but you know that too. Remember: blood is
thicker than water.”

She took to wandering the
perimeter of the odd-shaped room while he delivered the
well-meaning lecture. By the time he’d finished dishing out
avuncular advice she had paused in front of an oil painting of a
girl with a kitten. It was either a genuine Jean-Baptiste
Perronneau or a very good imitation. The kitten looked feral but
the girl looked sweet with soft fair hair and a blue silk dress
adorned with tiny rosettes. “Oh, I just remembered what I came up
here to tell you. Someone entered my bedroom while we were checking
the ramparts. They took the doll.”

“Why is the doll so
important?”

“I have no idea but it clearly
matters to someone. It was hidden under the pillow in this bed.”
She checked to make sure it had not been put back under the pillow.
“And now it has disappeared just like our hostess. I find that
curious.”

Dr Watson stifled a yawn. “We
should have a nap before lunch too.”

“You go ahead. I want to search
the dressing rooms a second time.”

He was reluctant to leave her
on her own. “I’ll just stretch out on this bed then. Wake me when
you’re done.”

The collection of clothes
belonging to the Singing Wolf was almost as enormous as the
collection belonging to the Countess herself, and the quality was
equally excellent, but it was the dressing room with the opera
costumes that interested the Countess most of all. The Singing Wolf
must have starred in almost every opera ever written: Aida,
Rigoletto, Macbeth, Otello - and had the costumes to prove it.
There was just one costume that seemed out of place. It consisted
of a pair of black leather trousers with a matching black leather
gilet that laced up at the front, and came with a pair of black
riding boots, black gloves, black neckerchief, and even a gun belt.
The Countess couldn’t think of any –
Sacre Bleu
!

The Singing Wolf’s lover was
Sarazan!

She must have let him into the
castle after everyone else had gone to bed. He must have killed her
after the act, and he must have taken the body away with him –
that’s why it couldn’t be found. Sarazan was the mysterious lover
Velazquez had heard that night. The terrified toreador was not in
mortal danger from any of the men inside the castle. That was one
mystery solved and yet the Countess could not rejoice. There was
inexpressible relief that it could not have been Moriarty and yet
great pity that Velazquez had died in vain.

Philosophical about the
absurdity of life and possessing a stoic soul, the Countess forced
herself to remain focussed. She checked the garderobe and gave
special attention to the lancet window that faced outwards, though
there was no question anyone had climbed in now that it was clear
the Singing Wolf had opened the door to her own killer. The floor
was badly scratched where Desi had probably dragged the heavy
buckets across the stones to flush the chute. Moss clung thickly to
the iron grate of the latrine, more-so than the one in the east
wing, nearest her bedroom. This seemed odd since it faced south and
was flushed more often that any of the others, but perhaps that’s
why the moss flourished – it was wet for longer periods.

In the bathroom Desi had wiped
down the copper bath and the triple aspect cheval glass. The
surfaces gleamed in the dim half-light. She was about to turn her
back on the room when the mirror caught her eye. The middle section
was fixed to the stone wall and yet it protruded at least twelve
inches. The two wings were on hinges and were much thinner, merely
the thickness of the glass and the carved backboard. The mirror had
been designed so that someone could relax in the bath and gaze at
themselves at the same time. Ah, vanity!

Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
who’s the vainest of them all!

The Countess decided to give Dr
Watson a bit more time to nap. She curled up in the chair by the
door, wrapped a quilted blanket around herself to keep warm since
there was no fire, and closed her eyes…

Barely had she the time to
drift off when some sublime singing reached her ears. There was no
mistaking it. It was the elusive singing phantom. Every muscle in
her body tensed and her first instinct was to rouse Dr Watson from
his slumber but she knew if she moved from her chosen spot she
would alert the phantom to her presence. It was better to stay put
and wait until the door was opened and the phantom revealed itself.
Her heart was beating fast, she was holding onto her last indrawn
breath, the door was creaking on its hinges when Dr Watson stirred,
snorted and rolled over.

In an instant the door slammed
shut and the phantom fled. The Countess gave chase. By the time
she’d thrown open the door and hitched up her petticoats, the
elusive creature had the advantage of several yards. She caught no
glimpse of it as she hurtled down the dark and narrow spiral stairs
in furious pursuit.

She had reached the one and
only landing midway in the corkscrew when something grabbed hold of
her elbow and almost wrenched her arm out of its socket, violently
halting her momentum.

“What the hell’s going on?”

“Let go!” she demanded
fervently but already it was too late. The phantom had eluded
capture a second time. Incensed, she confronted her assailant. “Why
did you grab me like that?”

Moriarty, visibly chagrined,
released her arm and stepped back into the great hall. “I thought
you were about to fall headlong down the stairs.”

“I was chasing the singing
phantom - did you see it?”

“No, I was looking at that
Lalique vase you spoke of, the one on the sideboard, when I heard
what I thought was a swishing-pattering sound. It sounded like a
dog. As it got louder, I kid you not - I thought it might be a pack
of wolves coming down the stairs and then I heard a cat miaow.”

“You didn’t hear any
singing?”

“No.”

“Are you sure you didn’t see
anyone rush down the stairs ahead of me?”

“Well, as I said I was looking
at the vase. In the time it took me to replace it and lift back the
tapestry someone could have raced past.”

Anger subsided and her
breathing returned to normal. She had to admit that what he said
was reasonable. She had been hurtling like a mad woman down the
stairs and one mis-step could have sent her plunging to her death.
She recalled that story someone told on their first night at the
castle about the boy who altered the height of the riser and killed
his drunken father. Moriarty might have recalled it too when he
spotted her flying along.

She was tossing up whether to
tell him about the outlaw costume in the closet upstairs when Inez
entered with a tureen of leak and potato soup. Her eyes were red
and puffy from crying. The death of Velazquez had hit her hard. The
Countess wondered if they had been lovers.

Xenia arrived bearing a platter
of cold meats and cheeses, and Desi appeared with a basket of
freshly baked bread and current buns and was being extra careful
not to drop it. Moriarty went to wake his friends and the Countess
went to fetch Dr Watson.

“Where’s von Gunn?” said the
Baron, glancing at the comptoise clock leaning against the wall as
they took their seats at the large oak table. “He went down to the
cellar ages ago. He should have returned with those two bottles of
cognac by now.”

“He’s probably been sampling
them to make sure they haven’t spoiled,” gibed Prince Orczy,
uncorking a bottle of local Gaillac wine. “Let him sleep. I’ll go
and wake him after I’ve eaten. I didn’t take much breakfast and I’m
famished. I’ll hunt out some grand cru while I’m down there.”

“I’ll go with you,” offered the
Countess. “I wouldn’t mind some champagne tonight.”

“Bring up a sweet sherry while
you’re at it,” said Dr Watson. “You can have the champagne to
yourself.” He was in a much better mood since his nap, though the
senseless death of the toreador weighed heavily on him. He raised
his glass. “Let us drink to the memory of Velazquez.”

“To Velazquez,” they solemnly
chorused.