The Curse of the Singing Wolf (29 page)

“Well, who would have guessed
it?” murmured the doctor, musing as to why he should still be
surprised by the queer habits of humans.

“Sherlock,” she said with
emphatic self-disgust. “He would have spotted it at ten paces.”

Oh, yes, Sherlock – mention of
the name reminded him that his night of over-indulgence was due to
disgust of another sort. “No need to castigate yourself for your
sleuthing failures when moral failures are far more important in
the scheme of things.”

“Er, yes,” she agreed, putting
his philosophical rambling and inability to concentrate down to his
fondness for sherry. “I was wondering how one could tell if a knife
entered the body by being thrown from a short distance as opposed
to being thrust at close range?”

“Several ways – angle of
penetration, depth of penetration. Who extracted the stiletto?”

“Moriarty?”

“I see.”

This time she had the good
sense to ignore the dubious intonation. “Milo was throwing his
knife at the logs of wood. I think he liked to practice his
knife-throwing as often as possible. Fedir caught him doing the
same the day before. That’s how we know the stiletto belonged to
the boy. By the way, I think it was Milo who threw the dagger that
killed the bandit when we were ambushed, not Velazquez. If you
recall the toreador had shaky hands and I believe it was Milo who
ran to extract the knife from the dead bandit.”

“No, I thought it was Desi who
ran to get the knife. Reichenbach ordered Milo to collect the
weapons and ammunition from the dead bodies.”

“Oh, yes, that’s right.”

“Were there any footprints in
the woodshed?”

“It was impossible to tell. In
fact, that could be why the killer decided to create the log fall.
They buried the body and hid the footprints at the same time. Fedir
and Moriarty kept watch in the great hall last night and they heard
a loud bang at first light. Reichenbach suggested it was the logs
rolling down and hitting the stone wall that abuts the kitchen that
made the noise. That puts the murder at first light.”

“In that case, Fedir gives
Moriarty an alibi.”

“Yes, yes he does.”

“That points to one of the
servants as the killer,” he said, noting that she seemed relieved
it could
not
have been Moriarty, “unless there really is a
lunatic phantom on the loose.”

She dropped her gaze and
spotted his pocket watch on the floor amongst his discarded
clothes, and like her father she had no difficulty reading upside
down. It was almost half past eleven. “I better get a move on. I’ve
got a few things to take care of before lunch. Will you be joining
us?”

The thought of rich food made
him dry retch. “No, I want to nurse my head a bit longer, if you
could send Xenia along in an hour or so with some plain bread and
another cup of hot black coffee that will suffice. Oh, and take the
sherry with you when you go.”

“Good decision,” she approved,
scooping up the bottle and the glass. “There’s no need to follow in
your brother’s footsteps just because things have been difficult of
late.”

“Where did that thought spring
from?”

“I understand from one of your
chronicles that your brother had a fondness for liquor.”

“I am
not
my
brother!”

He managed to dry himself
without falling over and crawled back into bed until such time as
someone ceased using his head as a war drum. She had been half
right about his brother – it was not so much a
fondness
for
liquor that his brother had. It was more like a violent love
affair. He was like all alcoholics, totally obsessed with his next
drink right up until the moment it killed him. The effect of his
physical and moral dissipation had ruined his family and almost
destroyed his long-suffering wife. As a consequence the doctor
harboured no fear he would ever follow in his brother’s footsteps.
Last night was a rare moment of personal weakness where he was
unable to put into words what he felt and had thus turned his
silent disgust back on himself.

But the morning after, as every
alcoholic knows, there is always remorse and the promise to oneself
that things will be different from now on. While he lay in bed he
told himself that her moral choices had nothing to do with him. She
was free to live her own life according to her own moral dictates.
He had no right to tell her who she could befriend or who she could
love. Even if she chose to marry Moriarty, so be it.

Lunch was being served early
because breakfast had been interrupted and morning tea had been
by-passed. It consisted of French onion soup, crusty bread and an
assortment of cheeses. The tureen and platters were standing ready
on the table and they would serve themselves. Inez and Desi were
inconsolable. They had spent most of the morning sobbing into their
aprons. The old couple had turned even more taciturn than usual.
The four men were milling around the great hall, agitated by the
death of the boy, anxious to find the killer, annoyed at not
knowing what had happened to their hostess. They were even starting
to suspect each other.

“I’ve got a cast iron alibi,”
growled Moriarty when the other three ganged-up. “I was in here
with Fedir all night until we heard a noise at first light and
raced up the stairs to the south tower. Fedir ran to wake the
Countess, as instructed earlier, and I stayed in the south tower to
make sure whoever it was didn’t escape.”

“Except there was no one
there,” reminded von Gunn.

“Very convenient for you,”
noted the Prince flippantly.

“What are you implying?” barked
Moriarty.

“He is intimating you could
have raced downstairs and killed the boy while Fedir was fetching
his mistress,” pointed out Reichenbach bluntly.

“Except I had no reason to kill
him,” argued the Irishman.

“Like you said,” returned von
Gunn, “the boy might have seen something he wasn’t meant to see the
night the Singing Wolf disappeared.”

“I had no reason to kill her
either!”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, let us
desist, there is a lady present.” Prince Orczy turned to the
Countess, who had just entered, noting the half-empty sherry bottle
in her hands. “Will Dr Watson be joining us for lunch?”

“No, he is still nursing a sore
head, but there is someone else who will be joining us,” she said
mysteriously. “Let me introduce our elusive phantom.”

“
Enchante, messieurs.
”
The girl employing impeccable French looked like an animated
golden-haired doll with bouncy ringlets as she made a charming
curtsey.

To describe the four men as
stunned would be an understatement. The ash from Reichenbach’s
cigarette dropped on the Turkey rug. Von Gunn missed his mouth and
dribbled cognac down his chin. Prince Orczy, who was in the process
of stubbing his cigarette in an ashtray, mis-judged and ground the
butt into the walnut sideboard. Moriarty, who was still inwardly
seething from the verbal attack, looked gobsmacked. Snake-haired
Medusa could not have had a more stupefying effect.

Lalique waited courteously for
someone to say something, smiling prettily at the four stupid men
who were trying desperately to apply reason to this new and bizarre
state of affairs. The Countess conducted introductions and the girl
curtsied afresh at each man in turn.

“Baron Reichenbach, I would
like to present to you Lalique, the daughter of the Singing
Wolf.”

And so it went three more times
with Herr von Gunn, Prince Orczy and Colonel Moriarty, which was
just as well for it took some time to sink in.

“Let us sit down to lunch
before the soup turns cold,” suggested the Countess. “Colonel
Moriarty, would you be so kind as to bring some cushions for our
youngest guest to sit on so that she may reach the table. I will
serve. Lalique can carry the soup bowls to each guest.”

The men looked doubtful but the
precocious girl beamed. She was in her natural element. She adored
being the centre of attention and had been starved of an audience
her entire life. Never again would the little coquette be confined
to a luxurious prison. The world was her stage and she meant to
play the star. She transported the soup bowls without spilling a
drop and sipped her soup daintily. The men didn’t quite know how to
respond and wavered between treating the girl like a playful new
puppy and the exotic princess of some far-off kingdom. The
Countess, too, had very little experience with children, having
none of her own, and rarely meeting any except for brief formal
family occasions - the offspring of her acquaintances being raised
by nannies and governesses. The girl however had spent her life
with adults and felt quite comfortable. She had never had playmates
her own age and would have found young friends profoundly odd.

The girl proved to be quite a
chatterbox and was happy to reveal her various hiding places and
how much fun she had had playing hide and seek. The men were
speechless. She asked each man if he knew where her maman was. An
answer in the negative did not dent her sanguine nature. Part way
through the meal the men discovered the girl had expected to meet
them. Her maman had told her she would be returning to Chanteloup
with four friends before the month was out. If they had any doubts
that the fire at the Hotel Louve had been deliberately lit, that
doubt was instantly dispelled. The Singing Wolf had planned for the
four men to meet Lalique. But why?

Slowly, over the space of
lunch, the answer became obvious. One of the men was the girl’s
father. When the Countess passed around the baby photo with the
four names on the back, followed by four question marks, the matter
was more or less confirmed. It appeared that the Singing Wolf did
not know who had fathered her child and had been hoping to settle
the matter of paternity once the four men came together.

Inez and Desi came to clear the
table and serve coffee. They were shocked to see a little girl
seated at the table and the sight immediately took their minds off
the death of Milo. They hurried back to the kitchen to inform the
old couple. A few moments later, fearing the worst, Almaric and
Hortense appeared in the great hall.

“You need have no fear,” said
Lalique, addressing the old servants and sounding quite grown up.
“Maman’s friends are very jolly and I have been minding my manners.
I will not be sleeping in the stable any more. From now on I will
be sleeping in the big bed.”

Almaric, wringing his hands and
biting his lip, looked beseechingly to the Countess for a
response.

“We understand what has been
happening with Lalique,” she said. “Your desire to protect her is
commendable. We will take care of her for the time being. She is
quite safe with us. If you know what has happened to her maman now
would be a good time to tell us.”

“We have no idea where she is
or what has happened,” croaked the old man earnestly. “She was
looking forward to introducing the child to her friends.
Preparations were made. She was looking forward to the event
eagerly, as was the child. After her disappearance everything was
thrown into confusion. My wife and I have been beset with worry
ever since. If you can shed any light on what has happened we would
be eternally grateful. And since the death of the boy this morning
-”

“Yes, yes,” cut off
Reichenbach, thinking of the girl. “This is not the time for such
discussion. You may return to the kitchen. If anything comes to
light we will inform you.”

After lunch, Lalique sang a
French song and performed a dance that she had been diligently
rehearsing. The men were impressed and the applause was genuine. It
was clear the girl would one day be on the stage, perhaps she would
even be as talented as the Singing Wolf. Shortly afterwards, Xenia
came to collect the girl for her afternoon nap and though the
little demoiselle stamped her foot and resisted, a promise was made
whereby she would be allowed to join the adults for dinner if she
had a short sleep now. Her departure opened up frank
discussion.

“Well, it’s not me!” declared
von Gunn.

“Nor me!” voiced the Irishman
firmly.

“You can count me out!” vowed
Reichenbach.

“Don’t look at me!” snapped the
Prince. “Though I concede she is blonde.”

“She’s a pretty little thing
too,” agreed the Prussian, softening momentarily.

“Quite,” said the German,
tenderly, “but she does not have Aryan features.”

“If by that you mean she
doesn’t look like a Valkyrie,” challenged Moriarty acrimoniously,
still nursing grievances from the earlier attack, “you are right,
but there is no denying she has your blue eyes.”

“And yours, Irishman!”

“We all have blue eyes,”
reminded the Prussian, “though mine are the bluest.”

“What does that mean?” quizzed
the Prince. “Blue is blue!”

“Mine are Prussian blue.”

“Prussian blue, sky blue, ice
blue – you are measuring difference by degrees!”

“So I am! The same with hair!
The girl’s hair was yellow blonde. Mine is white blond. It is
referred to as platinum blond. Quite different!”

“Cow shit!” Moriarty’s
expletive was fierce. “I have seen girls from the same family all
sporting different shades of blondeness from white to yellow to
gold to reddish blonde.”

Reichenbach flared. “The same
goes for you then. Just because you’re bald on top does not mean
you can disguise your blondness. I’ve seen your hairy legs!”

“We’re missing the point,”
barked von Gunn. “The Singing Wolf selected the four of us because
we all have blond hair and blue eyes but don’t you see – the child
could not possibly be hers! She was dark and swarthy! Catalan,
Moroccan, Corsican, Syrian, Persian, whatever she was, she was not,
repeat not, Viking or Saxon or Celt!”