The Curse of the Singing Wolf (25 page)

“You can thrust all you like
but not in my direction.”

“More’s the pity.”

The Countess quickly explained
to Xenia what was expected. She was to stand by the sideboard and
listen. Then lift back the tapestry and listen again. It would not
take long.

As soon as they entered the
bedchamber Moriarty leapt on to the bed, stretched out his legs and
placed his hands behind his head; the breadth of his smile and the
twinkle in his Irish eyes told her how much he was enjoying
himself.

“Get off the bed,” she
instructed curtly. “If the Singing Wolf was entertaining someone in
here she was not doing it in her bed. The bed was unruffled. You
can take up a position on the floor at the foot of the bed and I
will take the daybed.”

“I haven’t had this much fun
since my fifth birthday.”

“What happened on your fifth
birthday?”

“I got a pony.”

“I suppose you were a natural
born horseman?”

“Not really. I fell off and
apparently bawled my eyes out. My father was disgusted.”

“I bet you stopped crying and
got straight back up onto that little pony?”

“Indeed.”

“And it was the making of you!
Let’s start.”

“I take it this heavy breathing
and panting turned a bit rough?”

“I believe it did. Can you
extemporise?”

“I’ll just close my eyes and
think of that pony.”

“Good boy!”

It was all they could do to
stop from bursting out laughing, but who could have guessed that
feigning ecstasy could be so hilarious. Moriarty was astounded the
Countess had gotten the faking of it down to such a fine art. At
one stage he looked across to the daybed to see if perhaps she
really had entered a state of female bliss. By the time they had
finished he was convinced that aural stimulation played a much
bigger part in pleasure than he had hitherto imagined.

In the meantime, Dr Watson
entered the great hall and asked Xenia what she was doing.

“Listening to the Countess,”
she said. “She is with the bad Irish upstairs.”

Dr Watson joined Xenia under
the arch, turned brick red, whirled on his heel and stomped
downstairs to the kitchen, livid with anger. He was still so rigid
with indignation when it came time to change the bandages on Milo’s
hands he could barely re-wrap them.

“What happened to your
pony?”

“The next time I fell off it my
father shot it.”

“One of them was lying,”
declared Prince Orczy as he popped the cork on the champagne and
poured a glass for the Countess and himself.

“I think they were all lying,”
asserted Reichenbach, eschewing French bubbly and opting for
cognac. “Where on earth is von Gunn now? I knocked on his door as I
was passing and didn’t get a reply. Dinner is about to be served.
It is damned bad manners.”

“I’ll go and hurry him up,”
volunteered Moriarty, feeling benevolent to all mankind, including
wealthy German industrialists.

Dr Watson arrived looking
red-faced.

“Where have you been?” quizzed
Moriarty good-humouredly on his way out. “Don’t tell me you’ve been
chasing the elusive phantom again!”

Dr Watson grunted something as
he tramped to the sideboard, poured a generous measure of sweet
sherry into a wine goblet and drained the lot. Alarmed, the
Countess immediately sidled up to him.

“Is everything all right?”

“Just dandy,” he ground out
through gritted teeth as he showed her a cold shoulder and went to
take out his anger on the coals in the fireplace, stabbing them
viciously with the poker, creating a flurry of sparks, several of
which singed the Turkey rug.

“I’ve just bedded the fire
down,” said the Baron.

Dr Watson glared at the
Prussian and viciously stabbed the coals a second time.

The Countess decided to divert
any unpleasantness and settle a point of curiosity at the same
time. “Baron Reichenbach, do you know which opera launched the
career of the Singing Wolf?”

He considered the question
briefly. “I believe it was the Oberammergau Passion Play.”

“That’s not an opera,” argued
the Prince. “It was Otello. I cannot remember the exact year.”

“Oh, yes, that’s right,” agreed
the Baron. “La Scala. She caused a sensation in that red and gold
dress you mentioned earlier, Countess.”

“And the fact she was a good
head taller than the leading man,” laughed the Prince.

Reichenbach guffawed loudly.
“That’s right! Otello was supposed to be a military hero and here
was this short, fat, roly-poly figure with too much grease-paint!
Half way through the second act his face began to melt. I must
admit he could sing all right. But she saved the night. She was
sensational! Every man in the audience fell in love with her that
night.” He sighed wistfully.

Moriarty returned looking
vexed, some tightness in his throat betrayed his agitation. “Von
Gunn’s not in his room. The door at the end of the west wing has
been unbolted. I’ll check the western ramparts. Reichenbach, you
and Orczy check outside – go out through the kitchen. Dr Watson, if
you could locate the Countess’s manservant – then check the cellar
and dungeons. Countess, you remain here, should he come back while
we’re out you can let us know.”

As soon as the men dispersed
the Countess ventured down the west corridor to peek into the
bedrooms to see what furniture had in fact been moved when she
heard a groaning sound. It was coming from the garderobe. Von Gunn
was lying on the floor. Either he had fainted due to that
concussion he’d suffered earlier or he was still searching for
Cathar loot and had passed out when he leaned over too quickly. She
helped him to his feet. By the time they got to his room he was
feeling better and waved away the offer of her manservant to help
him dress.

“Have a cognac standing by!” he
shouted as she left him to it.

She was passing Moriarty’s room
when she paused and looked back over her shoulder to check no one
was coming then tiptoed in. His furniture had not been deranged but
she saw at a glance that he had cut the backing away from the
frames around the oil paintings of Irish scenes and exposed the
canvases. He had also cut the leather binding away from three books
on the history of the Cathars. There was no doubt he was searching
for some sort of paper. It had to be a map. There was nothing else
it could be. She could hear the door at the end of the corridor
slam shut. The bolt slid home. She hurried out to meet him.

“I found von Gunn in the
garderobe. He’d fainted. He’s in his room changing for dinner.
He’ll join us shortly.”

“Bloody fool!” cursed the
Irishman, glancing at the bolt to his room – it was sitting a
fraction short of the end yet he knew he had shot it home.

Xenia was in the dining room.
She’d brought up a tureen of green borscht. The Countess sent her
to alert the others that von Gunn had been found. Twenty minutes
later they were seated around the table. Dr Watson took the chair
farthest from the Countess. He drained a full glass of grand cru
and poured himself another before he’d had his first mouthful of
soup. He looked like thunder and the Countess was worried. The
tension was clearly getting to him. It was time to apprise the men
of her thoughts in the hope one of them might betray himself.

“Last night when I was
interrogating Velazquez he admitted he had crept upstairs to have
something to drink on our first night at Chanteloup. While he was
in the great hall he heard a noise coming from the bedroom in the
south tower. He believed the Singing Wolf was entertaining someone
in her bedchamber.”

“Are you saying she had a man
in her bed?” exclaimed the Baron.

“Not in her bed, specifically,
for the bedding was untouched from the time it had been turned down
by the chamber maid, but in her room, yes.”

“Are we talking intercourse?”
clarified von Gunn, rubbing his throbbing egg.

“Yes.”

“Who was it?” asked the Prince
looking to spot the guilty party and wondering why Moriarty seemed
unsurprised.

“That’s a good question,”
replied the Countess. “Velazquez thought it was one of you and was
terrified of being murdered if he spoke up – that incidentally is
why he fled - but it now appears that it may have been
Sarazan.”

“What!” spluttered the Baron,
spraying green soup across the table.

“Impossible!” exploded von
Gunn.

Prince Orczy laughed
dismissively. “How did Sarazan get in?”

“She let him in.”

The men exchanged incredulous
glances, and this time Moriarty was also surprised, for though he
was aware the Countess believed a man had been in the south tower
on that first fateful night he had assumed it to be one of his
compatriots.

“What about the rockslide? How
did the outlaw get past that?” he pressed sceptically.

“He would know the mountain
tracks like the back of his hand. If he didn’t need to use the
zigzag path, meaning he didn’t arrive on horseback at the gate,
then he may have clambered up on foot, found the portcullis and
gate open, the front door open and simply walked in. There was a
man’s costume hanging in the closet upstairs. It was the sort of
thing a brigand would wear.”

“In the closet of the Singing
Wolf?” clarified the Prince.

“Yes.”

“That implies he was a regular
visitor,” reasoned the Irishman.

“Yes.”

“I recall the front door was
unbolted the next day when we checked,” said Reichenbach grimly,
“but who closed the gate and lowered the portcullis?”

“If the Singing Wolf was alive
she would have done it,” offered von Gunn. “But if Sarazan killed
her then it could only be the old man. I can beat the truth out of
him after dinner.”

“There’s no need for that,”
tempered the Countess. “I think it is highly likely Sarazan took
the body with him when he left. It may have been part of that
reincarnation belief. In which case, it could only have been the
old man. There is no need to beat the truth out of someone when the
truth is glaringly obvious.”

“Typical response from a
woman!” grunted von Gunn. “That’s why things of this nature are
best left to men.”

“Hang on!” said Reichenbach,
dabbing his chin with his napkin and frowning. “Sarazan may well
have been the Singing Wolf’s lover but our bedrooms all face
inwardly toward the north gate. We would surely have heard the
portcullis being raised and lowered. Have any of you heard the
clanking sound those old gates make?”

“I have,” said the German.
“Seven of my castles have portcullises. They creak and groan. I
agree we would have woken.”

Inez arrived carrying a large
earthenware pot. An appetising smell filled the hall. Desi brought
a basket of bread for mopping up the juices of their rabbit in red
wine with mushrooms and potatoes. It was Inez who served the meal
and Desi who carted the soup bowls away.

Conversation ceased while the
two female servants remained in the hall, not only because
suspicions were running high, and the least said the better, but
because Inez had some huge red welts on one half of her face and
had clearly been crying bitterly.

Prince Orczy broke the silence
as soon as Inez retreated. “Did you see her face?”

“Yes,” the others muttered.

“Since this is an issue
concerning female domestics,” said Reichenbach. “It might be best
left to the Countess to deal with. My advice, gentlemen, is to
ignore it.”

“Pass the salt and pepper,”
nodded the Prince, directing his request at Dr Watson who had
remained morosely silent so far. “I agree about the portcullis. It
makes a racket and it is damned difficult to raise and lower. Fedir
turned the shaft this morning and his face showed the strain. There
is no way the old man could have done it on his own, nor could the
Singing Wolf have done it after her lover left her.”

“I was thinking the same
thing,” said Moriarty. “And who’s to say Velazquez was not lying
when he claimed he heard, er, certain noises from the bedchamber.
He might have been the lover in question and was covering his
tracks.”

Von Gunn nodded. “I sometimes
wondered why the Singing Wolf kept him on. He was a nervy drunk,
everyone could see that, and yet she retained his services.”

“Devilishly handsome though,”
mused the Prince. “The sort women go for.”

“We shall take your word for
it,” affirmed the Irishman sardonically. “I think it fair to say
you have extensive experience in that regard.”

Orczy laughed, taking no
offence.

“Velazquez might have been
doing more than covering his tracks,” suggested Reichenbach. “He
might have been giving himself an alibi.”

“You mean he might have killed
the Singing Wolf?” posed von Gunn.

“Yes.”

“That would explain why he
fled,” agreed the Irishman circumspectly. “It may not even have
been a deliberate killing, but accidental, something that happened
in the heat of the moment, during some rather rough and heavy, er,
love-making.” He was careful not to look at the Countess. “He may
have panicked afterwards and disposed of the body.”

“How?” challenged the Countess,
forcing his gaze. “We’ve been over that? A search revealed
nothing.”

“A cursory search,” reminded
Moriarty, undaunted. “There are any number of ways he could have
disposed of the body. If we put our minds to it we could probably
come up with a dozen ways right now.”

“Very well,” she said briskly,
“let’s do that.”

“A secret chamber,” offered von
Gunn, first up, who was obviously still thinking about hidden loot
and secret tunnels. “All castles have one. Call them what you will.
Priest’s holes, silver rooms, medieval safes for storing gold
coins, escape hatches or oubliettes.”