The Curse of the Singing Wolf (6 page)

The men decided to change out
of their smoke-stained clothes before decamping to the dining room.
Dr Watson bumped into them in the foyer as he came hurtling in and
was amazed that they were unhurt and seemed in such good spirits.
They briefly recounted what had happened, describing astonishing
acts of courage as nothing out of the ordinary.

The fire had started when a
spark caught hold of a cloth hanging on a rail above the cooking
fire where a whole pig was roasting on a spit. The burning cloth
fell into a vat of oil which ignited some hot dripping in a pan.
Before the chef could quell the flames the whole chimney was alight
and the pig was incinerated. Anything that was flammable was
consumed by leaping tongues of fire. However, the conflagration was
quickly contained and it was only because of the low ceiling and
dearth of windows that the acrid black smoke, which sought to vent
itself through every possible aperture, made it seem far worse than
it actually was.

Dr Watson retrieved his medical
bag and went to see what he could do for the chef and the lobby
boy. Their injuries were minor and the curative measures already
undertaken were as good as anything he could think of in the
circumstances. He decided to check on Fedir in the west wing. The
manservant was lying on his pallet. His eyes were smarting from the
smoke but the damage was minimal. He recommended an eye wash using
salt water and then bed rest for the remainder of the day. By the
time he tidied himself up and arrived in the dining room the others
had eaten and departed. He helped himself to some cold soup, rosbif
sandwiches, drained two cups of tepid tea, and finally caught up to
the Countess in her bedchamber. She was supervising the packing of
her trunks, portmanteaux and hatboxes. She seemed in a frightful
hurry.

“Are you transferring to
another hotel?”

“Haven’t you heard?” she
said.

“Heard what?”

“We have been invited to spend
the rest of the week at the mountain retreat of the Singing
Wolf.”

“An odd name for a hotel: The
Mountain Retreat of the Singing Wolf. I don’t believe I have ever
heard of it. Is it far out of town? I was hoping to play a round of
golf tomorrow.”

“Oh, dear,” she sighed,
realizing he had missed out on all the gossip relayed by the
Princess Roskovsky and had probably not yet met their mysterious
hostess either. “Take a seat and I will explain.”

She decided to keep it simple
so as not to confuse him, deliberately omitting details pertaining
to unsubstantiated rumours regarding wealth and nationality.

“An opera singer,” he said
dubiously. “I cannot say I have heard of her. Do you think she
could have been a friend of…” he paused, wondering how to phrase it
and finally settled on, “Miss Adler?”

“You mean my mother?” she said
with conviction.

“Yes, I suppose so,” he
conceded, though he was still not convinced.

“She is of similar age – about
forty years plus, and she did sing with the Warsaw Opera, so it is
entirely possible.”

“I think it might be best not
to mention the fact Miss Adler is…”

“Yes, yes,” she cut off. “I
have no intention of letting the cat out of the bag.”

He breathed a sigh of relief.
He was still awaiting further confirmation from Mycroft regarding
where she had sprung from. Until then, they both needed to play
their cards close to their chests. There was more at stake than she
knew.

“So where are we off to?” he
asked with a frown, changing the subject. “A damn shame about that
kitchen fire. I was looking forward to staying here. I am starting
to think I might be cursed with regard to hotels.”

“It is called Chanteloup. A
day’s journey into the hinterland.”

“A days’ journey! It’s already
midday! Are we expected to trek through the Pyrenees in the pitch
dark on horseback and arrive at some isolated farmhouse at
midnight?”

“Private train – overnight
sleeper, individual compartments for everyone; did I forget to
mention the Singing Wolf is frightfully rich?”

Shaggy grey brows travelled
north, followed by a smile.

Within the hour everyone’s
luggage was on board a private train chugging east, skirting the
rugged foothills of the Pyrenees. The train had been decommissioned
by the Belgians several years ago when the fashion for carriage
cars became wider and longer. It had since undergone a complete
refurbishment. It was painted black and gold with an elaborate SW
monogram on each car. The interior was now fit for royalty with
polished mahogany panelling, plush velvet upholstery, black damask
curtains with gold fringing and shiny brass fittings. There were
five cars including the locomotive and an observation car at the
rear with a little platform like a miniature balcony with wrought
iron railing which was perfect for watching the scenery whizz by
while smoking a cigarette. The fifth car doubled as the sitting
car. There was no dining car as such but provisions had been loaded
aboard for dinner and breakfast so that they would not need to stop
at any of the stations en route. A couple of quick stops to take on
water and coal would keep them going with minimal interruption.

Everything had happened at a
furious pace after the Singing Wolf issued her invitation while
they were lunching, making it sound like a fait accompli. None of
the men had attempted to beg off and the Countess had wondered what
would have happened had Dr Watson been present when the
announcement had been made, for that’s what it was, an
announcement, a decree, a royal edict. The Countess considered
declining the kind offer but then thought twice about swimming
against the tide. It was as if all the events leading up to this
point been had been set in motion by some force greater than the
sum of all she understood to be rational and real: The mix-up with
the rooms at the Hotel du Palais, the four
radical
men
assembling here at the Hotel Louve, and the fire in the kitchen. A
series of strange coincidences? Or some diabolical piece of
theatre? It was at times like these that she gave herself over to
unknown forces, or for want of a better term, the forces of
Fate.

Dr Watson had had no chance to
meet his fellow travellers until they arrived at the bustling train
station in Biarritz, and even there, because of the flurry of
fiacres, the unloading of wagonettes, the hauling of luggage into
different cars, and not having as many servants as they would have
liked for all the tasks, that introductions were hurried – a quick
nod, a brief shake of hands, a jumble of names shouted above the
whistle of the train – Frederick, Gustav, James - the hiss of
steam, the clatter of wooden trolleys, and the frantic call: “All
aboard! All aboard! Express to Chanteloup! Train privée! Stand
back! Stand back!”

The sultry flamenco dancer,
Inez, the Singing Wolf’s personal maid and occasional
femme de
chambre
, was included in the party, as was Velazquez and Milo,
the lobby boy, his hands bandaged. There was also clumsy Desi, the
lumpen Negress with frizzy hair. The remainder of the staff at the
Hotel Louve stayed behind to assist Felipe, who had been charged
with supervising repairs and renovations. There was minimal damage
from the flames but the smell of smoke had permeated most of the
rooms. Everything would need to be aired, including rugs, curtains
and soft furnishings.

The Countess decided to give Dr
Watson a chance to formally meet his fellow travellers in the
observation car for himself. Xenia had been told to make herself
scarce and not return for an hour. The Countess waited alone in her
compartment for the door to burst open. It took twenty minutes from
the time of boarding for the doctor to appear. He was frothing at
the mouth.

“Are you mad!” he foamed.

“Close the door,” she relied
calmly.

He did as she asked, making
sure to lock it. “Are you mad!” he repeated apoplectically.

“I take it by that rhetorical
rejoinder that you have met our fellow travellers?”

“If you mean Reichenbach and
Moriarty – yes, I have met them!”

“Lower your tone and take a
seat.”

“What game is this!” he
gurgled, throwing himself down with exaggerated effort.

“I don’t know,” she replied
truthfully. “I think we have stumbled into a nest of vipers.”

“Oh, so you admit it then!”

“Calm down – and let’s think
clearly.”

“It is all clear enough to
me!”

“If so, then you will have to
admit this journey could not have been planned in advance.”

“I will admit no such
thing!”

“No one could have foreseen you
and me transferring to the Hotel Louve. Whatever game is afoot it
has nothing to do with us.”

“You mean it
had
nothing
to do with us.”

“Yes, I concede we are in it
now, whatever
it
is.”

“Up to our necks!”

“The four men we are travelling
with come every year to the Hotel Louve - always at the same time
of year. I met Prince Orczy last night at the opera, and then later
at the casino I met Baron Reichenbach and Herr von Gunn. I didn’t
meet Moriarty until this morning. It was just before the fire broke
out.”

“He was probably busy lighting
it!”

She ignored the incendiary
accusation. “He was with me in the garden at the time. The prince
was heading toward the boulevard and the other two men were on the
terrace taking a post-petit-dejeuner cigarette. None of them were
anywhere near the kitchen when the fire started.”

He exhaled for the first time
since storming her carriage and practically ripping the door off
its hinges. “Well, at least it sounds as if you’ve been giving the
matter some serious and careful consideration. I thought perhaps
you were going to dismiss this coincidence as some sort
of…coincidence.”

“I was as vexed as you when I
heard the name Reichenbach. He is Prussian, by the way, not Swiss.
There must be hundreds of Reichenbachs in Europe. The Princess
Roskovsky said his roots go back to Charlemagne.”

“And Moriarty – did that name
vex you?”

“I admit I felt alarmed. I
tossed and turned all night when Xenia informed me last night that
someone of that name had checked into the hotel.”

He slapped the side of his head
and groaned quietly. “Don’t tell me your two servants are privy to
the circumstances of the death of Sherlock?”

“Yes, of course they are. They
have been with me constantly since childhood. My step-father
instilled in me from a young age that I would always have three
shadows – my own plus theirs. Slavery has been abolished. Serfdom
went the same way in 1861. But some servants are for life. I have
no secrets from them. I also learnt early in life that if they are
to protect me from kidnappers, provocateurs, gold-diggers and
assassins then they need to be privy to whoever enters my circle.
Odessa is not London. We do things differently there. We think
differently.”

He didn’t say anything for a
moment or two. “What else did the Russian barnacle say?”

“Prince Anton Orczy is
penniless. He drifts from one baccarat table to the next. His
mother is always bailing him out of debt. I gather he is a bit of a
charming wastrel.”

“Sounds harmless – that
immediately makes me suspicious of him.”

She nodded meditatively. “Herr
Gustav von Gunn is a German munitions manufacturer. He must be
incredibly wealthy because he owns twelve castles. European
governments fall all over themselves to court him.”

“I’m not surprised. Europe
seems to lurch from one war to the next with brief interludes of
peace but nothing permanent despite the best diplomatic efforts of
the War Office and intelligent men like Mycroft. What about
Moriarty?”

“I did not meet him until this
morning, as I stated earlier, so the Princess Roskovsky was not
able to offer any information that might prove enlightening. I
learned his other two brothers are dead. They hail from an
impoverished Irish clan. Their wealth has now been restored and he
is restoring his mother’s family seat. I do not know how he earns
his money.”

“I’ll tell you how he earns his
money! He has stepped into his brother’s shoes! He is the new
Napoleon of Crime!”

“Colonel of Crime,” she
corrected acerbically. “His brother, Professor James Hieronymous
Moriarty, was the Napoleon of Crime. I was told the second brother,
James Vercengetorix, was a musical genius, but this one is the
third sibling – James Isambard Moriarty.”

“Insanity must run in the
family! All right – Colonel of Crime! That will help us to
distinguish one evil nutter from another!”

“We can refer to the second as
the Composer of Crime.”

“What?”

“He was a talented composer –
it will help us to distinguish, as you said.”

“I’ve never heard of him and I
pride myself on keeping up with the latest composers.”

“I think his musical scores may
have been esoteric, out of this world, not for common consumption –
compositions based on musical spheres and astronomical measurements
or heavenly predictions.”

“Oh, good grief! What did I
just say! Another nutter! But you mentioned he was dead?”

“Yes, so I believe, but if we
need to refer to him…”

“Very well: Composer of Crime!
Let’s hope there isn’t a fourth nutter waiting in the wings! We
will run out of ridiculous nicknames starting with C!” Dr Watson,
face flushed, turned to look out of the window at the forest
whizzing past while his anger cooled. Armies of soldierly fir trees
stood straight and tall like a phalanx of warriors. The military
image was unnerving. “Nest of vipers,” he muttered uneasily. “What
can these four rogues be up to?”

The Countess had also been
gazing at the phallic fir forest and she felt oddly unnerved by the
masculine force of nature. “I have been giving the matter some
thought and it might be a simple case of unrequited love?”