The Curse of the Singing Wolf (22 page)

They discussed the plan for
tonight. It was exactly the same as the previous evening, though
with Sarazan’s forces seriously depleted it was unlikely he would
be contemplating an all-out assault, especially as he was under no
illusion that he was up against men who knew one end of a gun from
another. If the brigand had any sense he would go back to robbing
pilgrims and unarmed train travellers. So, it was not Sarazan that
concerned them. It was the fact there was a lunatic at large who
was likely to slit their throats one by one while they slept. When
the Countess told them about hearing the singing phantom just prior
to lunch it confirmed their resolve to stick together. And that’s
when they remembered von Gunn a second time.

“This talk of lunatics,” said
the Prince, adopting an ominous undertone, “makes me think von Gunn
has been gone a long time.”

Reichenbach pushed abruptly to
his feet and checked the chamber of his gun for bullets. “I’m going
down to the cellar.”

“I’ll come with you,” said
Moriarty, his hand on his revolver.

In the end it was only Dr
Watson who chose to remain in the great hall. He sat with his back
against the wall and kept his hand on his Webley. Someone needed to
stay back in case that elusive phantom turned up unannounced.

The servants were enjoying hot
soup and crusty bread and fairly jumped out of their skins when
three men and one woman streamed through the main kitchen
brandishing loaded weapons. Fortunately, the quartet paused only
long enough to light some lanterns before continuing straight down
to the cellar.

Von Gunn was nowhere to be
seen. Two bottles of cognac standing by the cellar stairs indicated
he had come this way. They wasted no time and ran down some more
stairs to the dungeon and torture chamber. It was a relief not to
find him strapped to the rack or strung up on a strappado. Everyone
had been imagining the worst.

“Here he is!” shouted the
Prince not long after they spread out to widen the search.

Von Gunn was found at the
bottom of an oubliette – literally a small pit in the floor where a
prisoner could be dispatched and forgotten, hence the name. It was
too deep to climb out of and not wide enough to stretch out. A few
days of being doubled-up and bent in such a small hole would have
been an agony on the bones. Some times more than one prisoner went
in and the poor fellows sat in their own filth until they starved
to death.

A ladder was found and Prince
Orczy, being tall and slim, volunteered to go down to help the
German climb the rungs. He appeared groggy and dazed and had a lump
on his head the size of a bird’s egg. He couldn’t say whether he
had been pushed or whether he had merely stumbled in the dark and
thus ended up in the oubliette by accident.

“What made you come down to the
dungeon” asked the Baron.

“I thought I heard
singing.”

A quick search of the tiny
cells and torture chamber revealed no sign of life apart from rats
and cockroaches. They were glad to return to the cellar, grab what
they wanted by way of liquid refreshment, and bolt the door behind
them.

The Countess hung back and
waited for Moriarty to catch up to her.

“Here,” she said, handing him
the bottle of champagne, “take this upstairs. I want to search the
child’s room. I need you to instruct the servants to accompany you
to the great hall. You can say you want to interrogate them about
what just happened to Herr von Gunn.”

“Do you want me to stay with
you? Reichenbach can deal with the servants.”

She shook her head. “I don’t
want the old couple to think anyone is searching their private
quarters.”

He understood. “I’ll leave your
maid and manservant with you.”

The Countess pretended to be
interested in the preparations Xenia was undertaking toward their
dinner – cooking green borscht, much tastier than the red version,
made from chervil rather than beetroot – and waited until the
others disappeared.

“Keep an eye out,” she
instructed Fedir, who had just brought in a load of wood. “Warn me
if anyone comes.”

Hurrying into the bakery room,
she immediately set about checking the armoire and the storage
chest but it was exactly as Moriarty had described to the doctor:
sabots, scarves, hats and cloaks. Loaves of bread baked that
morning were cooling on the small table in the centre of the room
which was still covered with a fine dusting of flour. It was a
proper bread-making table, the sort found in most peasant homes,
with a lid that opened and a hatch underneath for the dough so that
it could be kept warm while the yeast expanded prior to baking.
Twin beds were pressed against the wall nearest the bread oven. The
blankets had been pulled back, allowing the beds to air. The stale
smell of sweat and the odour of old people clung to the bedding.
The floor around the door to the child’s room was as Moriarty had
said – covered with sawdust and flour. The sack of flour was now
half-empty. She slipped the bolt and went inside. There was no
window and the light was dim. It took a moment to adjust to the
darkness. A child’s cot stood against the far wall and a
beautifully carved storage chest stood near the door. The room was
small. The only other furniture was a comfortable nursing chair and
a wicker basket full of toys. The child’s cot was shaped like a
sleigh, elaborately carved with images of reindeer. The bedding was
made from good quality linen and smelled freshly laundered. The
quilt was plump and the pillow was stuffed with goose-down. This
child had been cossetted and well-loved. Inside the chest was a
collection of clothes for a young girl who had been about four or
five years of age. The fabric was silk and satin and velvet, edged
in lace and frills and ruffles and bows. There were two pairs of
satin slippers and even a pair of sabots for dainty little feet.
Tucked into the corners of the chest were pouches of dried
lavender. The smell was sweet and lovely. This child had not only
been cossetted, she had been supremely spoiled. The old couple
could never have afforded this level of luxury for their child
without the generosity of their mistress. Their benefactress must
have doted on the child too.

The Countess replaced
everything as she had found it and retreated, being careful to make
the flour and sawdust by the door appear undisturbed. Her hands and
nails were dirty by the time she finished covering her footprints
and she understood what Moriarty had meant when he told the doctor
the hands of the old couple were clean.

The death of this much-loved
child had possibly driven someone over the edge into madness –
perhaps a wet nurse or a nursery maid, or perhaps the real mother,
yes, a lady of rank, for it seemed unlikely that the clothes in the
chest belonged to the child of the poor old couple. The garments
were too new, too fresh, too costly. If the child had been theirs
it would have died more than sixty years ago. No, it could not
possibly be their child who had owned these things. They were
custodians of this treasure trove of keepsakes but they did not own
them. Knowing that, it soon became clear that they knew who did.
And that meant they knew who the mad woman was. It was time to see
what they had to say.

Inez was sobbing. She looked
wretched and scared stiff sitting in the chair at the end of the
dining table facing the four men who were taking turns
interrogating her. Dr Watson, wanting no part of such proceedings,
had taken it upon himself to help Fedir bring up some wood and
re-stack the fire baskets. If they were going to sit up all night
they would need more fuel.

Milo, Desi and the old couple
were seated on a pew in the chapel, awaiting their turn.

“I tell you I did not see when
Herr von Gunn went to the cellar. I was in the laundry room. My
back was to the door. I not know what happen to him. I tell you I
did not hear any singing. Velazquez was not my lover. Never! How
could I know what was in his head when he decide to run away? He
liked to drink, yes, I know that. He was always shaking, always
nervous, I think that was the drink making him do that. I tell you
I do not know what happen to our mistress. After our mistress go
missing, Velazquez is afraid even more, always jumping at every
leetle sound, always looking over his shoulder. I am afraid too. I
think he see something that night but he not tell me. We not have
time to talk about such things. I tell you he was not my lover!”
she repeated fervently, sobbing so much by the time she finished
they could get nothing more out of her.

Inez, still weeping, sashayed
back to the pew with a natural dancer’s grace and Desi was
summoned. The lumpy Negress shuffled to the chair and slumped
inelegantly onto the seat. Her hands were folded in her lap,
perhaps to stop them shaking, though she did not appear nervous or
afraid merely bewildered.

“Did you see when Herr von Gunn
went into the cellar?” began Reichenbach a little less harshly
since he did not want another flood of tears.

She shook her frizzy head and
looked directly at the Prussian. “I am in scullery. I have my back
to door. People come and go. I not look. I am busy, always busy.
Always there is work to do. The other servants they do not come,
there is more work for me.”

“Did you hear any singing?”

“I am busy, too busy to hear
singing. I never hear singing except when the mistress sings. She
has good voice. I like her voice. I stop and listen when she sing.
I think she will not sing more. I think that is the end of her
singing.”

“What makes you so sure she
will not sing anymore?”

She shrugged her big broad
shoulders. “I think she is finished singing.”

“Finished singing?”

She shrugged again. “She is
gone.”

“Gone where?”

The Negress looked up to the
vaulted roof or perhaps to heaven. “Gone.”

Von Gunn jumped in. “You think
she is dead?”

The Negress nodded without
elaborating or looking at her interrogator.

“What makes you think
that?”

“The mistress make no more
singing. I like her singing. But now she sing no more.”

Reichenbach decided to move on,
the girl’s answers were becoming repetitive.

“Did you notice when Velazquez
got up in the night? I am referring to the first night we stayed
here in Chanteloup.”

She scratched her thick black
neck and nodded. “I hear him. He trips on stones. He falls down. He
gets up. He goes into big kitchen. Bang! He knocks chair. He picks
chair up. He is going to get some drink. He likes to drink at
night. This everyone knows. He goes up the stairs. He trips again.
He falls down. He gets up. All is quiet.”

“Did you hear when he came
back?”

“Yes, he go to wrong room. He
go to room of Inez. She tells him go away. He comes to me. I tell
him same. Go away. I need sleep. I am tired. He tells me he is
cold. He want to get in bed with me. He say to me he hear singing.
He is scared. I tell him go or I will scream. He go and all is
quiet.”

Reichenbach could hardly
believe the handsome toreador would prefer the ugly negress to the
sultry lithe flamenco dancer but it wouldn’t be the first time
drink had rendered a man blind to reality. “Did he often want to
get into bed with you?”

The Negress glanced toward the
pew where Inez was sitting with her head in her hands. “Sometime -
when he drink too much.”

Von Gunn guffawed raucously. He
was thinking the same as Reichenbach, but he could see the funny
side of it. Poor deluded Velazquez!

A dark shadow fell over the
heavy brow of the Negress and she scowled, squared her substantial
shoulders and tilted her double chin to a noble angle. The Baron
decided to throw up the questioning to the others. The Countess
took him up on the invitation.

“Did you hear anyone else that
night, Desi?”

“Who you mean?”

“The singing ghost
perhaps?”

“No ghost. Velazquez is drunk.
He always see ghosts.”

“What sort of ghosts?”

“Ghost of his friend.”

“Friend?”

“Friend he kill in
Pamplona.”

“Who told you this?”

Desi looked across at Inez who
had suddenly stopped weeping and was listening intently. “I hear
when Velazquez tell to Inez one night when he go to her bed.”

“Liar! Liar!” shouted the
sultry dancer. “Velazquez never came to my bed! I wouldn’t let
him!” She began to sob again, even more hysterically.

“Be quiet, woman!” ordered von
Gunn. “Or I will lock you in the dungeon!”

Inez took him at his word,
cried out in fear, and began to suck back huge gulps of air that
ended in hiccups. Milo patted her on the back with his bandaged
hand to calm her down. The old couple clung to each other in
trepidation. They were probably thinking this was the beginning of
a new Inquisition. The Countess continued, though she doubted the
line of questioning would produce anything useful, but at this
stage who knew where anything might lead.

“What did you overhear, Desi?
Is that short for Desiderata?”

Desi shook her head.
“Desdemona.”

The Countess offered a friendly
smile that matched her tone. “Desdemona - like the name of the
heroine in Otello. Your mistress sang the part of Desdemona. I saw
a costume in the closet where she keeps her opera clothes. It was
made of red and gold silk. Did you see it?”

The Negress began to nod then
shook her head firmly, as if she had misunderstood the question.
The Countess smiled indulgently and returned to her original
question.

“What did you overhear between
Velazquez and Inez?”

“I hear him tell Inez he kill
his friend. He is running with bulls and he push his friend under
the bull. His friend is killed.”

“Liar!” shouted Inez,
hiccupping violently.