The Curse of the Singing Wolf (7 page)

His brows found something
interesting in the suggestion. “The Singing Wolf?”

She nodded. “The four men could
be vying for her favour.”

“Or her hand?”

“She does not strike me as the
marrying kind.”

“All women are the marrying
kind.”

“A common male misconception! A
poor woman must marry out of economic necessity but a rich one,
well, there are few incentives apart from social status or
procreation.”

“Is that your step-aunt
talking?”

“Yes, I was thoroughly
indoctrinated until I could see for myself how right she was.”

“So, you think the four men
come together each year to court the Singing Wolf?”

“It’s possible.”

“Yes,” he agreed circumspectly.
“She snaps her fingers and they come running. She is a stunning
looking lady.”

“Let’s not forget how wealthy
she is purported to be. No man could resist such a prize. Moriarty
could restore his old family seat sparing no expense, von Gunn
could double the size of his manufactories and double his profits,
Orczy could pay off his debts and gamble to his heart’s content,
and Reichenbach could recapture the glory days of Charlemagne.”

“Do you think she toys with
them?”

“Yes, I think she keeps them on
a string. The promise of passion, untold wealth, tangible beauty,
the prospective sweetness of taming something wild and free - it is
always there, dangling just in front of their eyes, close enough to
see, yet just out of reach.”

“Do you consider the men
weak?”

“
Pas du tout, mon ami
.
They are courageous, strong, driven - they remind me of Parzival on
a quest after the Holy Grail. They regard the conquest of the
Singing Wolf as one of life’s challenges. They come willingly to
Biarritz. She does not drag them kicking and screaming. This
morning they ran to put out the fire in the kitchens without any
thought of personal danger. They could have stood back and watched
the place go up in smoke but they reacted without hesitation. There
was no moment of doubt, no consideration given to the threat to
their own safety. A father running into a burning building to save
his only child could not have outrun them.”

“I suppose when you put it that
way, it must be love that drives them and yet...” He paused and
rubbed his bristly chin.

“And yet?”

“Something doesn’t sit
right.”

She glanced out of the window
while he extracted a cigarette and lighted it.

“I agree – something doesn’t
sit right.”

“It’s that phrase you used –
nest of vipers – I cannot rid myself of it.”

“Nor can I,” she admitted
frankly, “even though I plucked it out of thin air.”

“Did you? Did you really?”

She steepled her fingers while
she wrestled with that question. The subconscious mind was a
masterful interplay of unspoken thoughts, beliefs and impressions
formed behind the veneer of logical thinking.

“Light one up for me. Xenia
packed in a hurry and my cigarettes are in my cosmetic case.”

Obligingly, he passed her his
own glowing Bradley before lighting another and returning to the
same question. “Something must have prompted the phrase.”

She took a long deep inhalation
of tobacco and felt it go deep into her lungs. “The names most
likely – Reichenbach and Moriarty. But I have since wondered
whether I might have simply jumped the gun. This Moriarty is
not
the same Moriarty who hounded Sherlock to his death. To
tar him with the same brush is morally unjust.”

“Innocent until proven guilty;
sins of the brother and all that.”

“Yes, yes, all that. As for
Reichenbach – you would never condemn someone called York simply
because someone you knew had died in the city of York. It makes no
sense. The connection is purely geographic.”

“And yet?”

“And yet…” she sighed heavily.
“I think there is something about the four men, a thread, if you
will, that connects them in some way that is subversive. I cannot
say what makes me think so, perhaps it is my un-English up-bringing
in Odessa, or being raised by an uninhibited adventuress, a
remarkably shrewd woman when it came to dubious men, but I sense
something dark, possibly even dangerous about our four fellow
travellers. A wealthy young woman of independent means who has
not
led a sheltered life develops a sixth sense about men
who have something to hide. I cannot shrug off the feeling that the
annual get-together in Biarritz is not limited exclusively to the
pursuit of the goddess of love. A Balkan prince, a German munitions
manufacturer, a Prussian with a strong military background and an
Irish colonel – there is some secret that binds them, something
shadowy, something sinister, having said that, the obvious
conclusion seems too obvious and thus totally wrong.”

“Armaments, military ties,
enemies of Great Britain,” he reeled off gravely. “How can
something that is obvious be wrong?”

“It is the presence of the
fifth.”

“The fifth?”

“The Singing Wolf.”

Dr Watson chewed his bottom
lip. “I wish I could whip off a telegram to Mycroft. He would
settle the mystery of the four men in a trice. He would know all
there is to know about our mysterious hostess too. Do you know if
we are stopping at Lourdes?”

“Fedir overheard the station
master talking to the engine driver. We go as far as the
way-station in Bogomil. It falls short several miles of Lourdes. We
must find out as much as we can about our fellow travellers without
arousing their suspicion.”

“How do you suggest we do
that?”

“We quiz them on how they met,
where they met, when they met, but always in a conversational
tone.”

He began shaking his head. “It
won’t work. I cannot do it. As soon as I ask a question it will
look as if I am prying. I have not perfected the art of being a
sneak.”

“Very well, leave it to me. In
fact, it will be better that way. As far as our fellow travellers
are concerned there is no connection between myself and Sherlock,
but as for you, well, when Moriarty mentions the name Sherlock to
you do not react defensively.”

“How do you know he will
mention it?”

“You are sounding defensive
already,” she pointed out crisply. “He will mention it because he
will not wish to appear as if he has something to hide.”

“Your logic is topsy-turvy.
Appearing as if he has nothing to hide means he has something to
hide. Presumably, then, when one has nothing to hide one appears as
if one has something to hide.”

“
Exactement, mon ami
.
People who have nothing to hide lead uneventful lives of no
interest to anyone, including themselves, but they do not wish
anyone else to know they may be shallow and boring, thus they
behave as if they have something to hide to make themselves appear
mysterious and interesting. That is called Society.”

“Oh, spare me!” he groaned.
“Give me a good book for company any day!”

She laughed lightly but the
laugh was short-lived. “I’ve just seen the flaw in my flawless
logic. The Singing Wolf has veiled herself in mystery. Does that
mean she has nothing to hide? Or is she pulling off the perfect
double bluff? Appearing mysterious to hide the fact she has
something to hide?”

Dr Watson groaned again. “I’ll
see you in the observation car. Give me about fifteen minutes
before following. We don’t want to appear as if we are arriving
together and have nothing to hide.”

The observation car reminded
the doctor of a gentleman’s smoking room in a Parisian hotel in the
Marais where he had briefly stayed with Sherlock during the case of
the haunted synagogue which he never wrote up, ceding to the
request of the League de Judaisme. The banquettes and bergeres were
upholstered in black and gold gaufrage velvet trimmed with matching
black bullion fringing, cut-glass candle holders dotted the tables
and some of the candles were already a-flicker though it was only
mid-afternoon for the sky had clouded over and the light was a
gloomy grey. The seating was arranged in intimate groupings suited
to conversation or a game of cards. Prince Orczy was engaged in a
game of chess with Baron Reichenbach. Herr von Gunn was reading a
German newspaper and puffing on a cigar. Aromatic scent filled the
car. Colonel Moriarty was smoking a cigarette and leaning
precariously on the wrought iron railing of the little balcony at
the rear of the train.

Dr Watson decided to bite the
bullet. If he had something unpleasant or distasteful to do, he
always preferred to get it out of the way. Ergo if there were
sprouts for dinner he ate them first then enjoyed the rest of his
meal. He regarded Colonel Moriarty as he would a sprout. He took a
deep breath, pulled a sour face, and swallowed hard. For a brief
moment he allowed himself to imagine what might happen if the train
lurched suddenly and the Irishman took a tumble. It was during his
momentary fantasy that someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was
the sultry flamenco dancer, Inez.

“My mistress extends an
invitation for you, signor, to join her in her private car.”

His sour face cleared to a
smile. He thanked the young woman and turned at once on his heel to
follow her, though he knew the private car of the Singing Wolf was
the second after the locomotive engine. The first after the
locomotive, which caught the soot from the fire if the windows were
left opened, was reserved for baggage and servants. The third and
fourth cars, known as the
wagons-lit
, each housed three
sleeping compartments and a bathroom. A narrow corridor ran along
one side of the cars and at each end was a door that enabled a
person to step from one car to the next. People were mindful that a
mis-step meant slipping between the cars onto the tracks. Some of
the older trains did not allow such crossover. Some of the newer
ones were being designed in such a way as to make the crossover
safer.

Dr Watson had not yet met their
hostess and presumed that was why he had received the personal
invitation. A tray table sat ready with two glasses and a bottle of
amontillado. He felt instantly relieved and self-importantly
chuffed that there would be no third party present.

“Please make yourself
comfortable, Dr Watson,” she said in a mellifluous accent that he
could not quite pin down, indicating the sumptuously padded velvet
banquette opposite her own with an elegant wave of her hand.

“The countryside changes rather
dramatically in this part of the world,” she continued as Inez
filled two glasses with Spanish sherry. “The land to the west is
like the forests of Europe, like the Black Forest, dark, wet and
treed, and then we move inland and the land dries out, as if
someone has squeezed it dry. I always think it has cried itself
out. The history of the Cathars is tragic. The landscape reflects
the suffering. We are seeing the start of that now. If you look out
of the window you will see fewer trees and more rocks. Are you
familiar with the Pyrenees?”

“No, this is my first
visit.”

“Then you are in for a treat.
Is that how the Engleesh say such things? Treat?”

“Yes, quite.”

“You are Scotteesh, no?”

“Yes, I was born in
Edinburgh.”

“You have travelled much?”

“Yes, I think it might be safe
to say so – I have travelled a good deal in the last few years on
the Continent.”

“You Engleesh have a funny way
of saying things – might be safe – as if there is danger in saying
what is true. You are modest, I think.”

He could feel himself turning
pink and took a sip of sherry to disguise the fact. “I like to
think so, yes, modesty is a virtue, boasting is not good form.”

“To say you travel a good deal
is not boasting. To have the good fortune to travel is admirable if
it broadens the mind and feeds the soul.”

“Oh, yes, indeed – that is the
chief aim of travelling as far as I am concerned: to educate, to
enlighten, to grow as a person.”

“To have the luck or wealth to
do this is good, no? There is no shame in luck or wealth.”

“Certainly not, as long as they
are earned.”

“Earned? How Scotteesh! How
Engleesh! How foreign is such an idea! To earn luck! If it is
earned then it is not luck. Luck is happenstance. Luck is chance.
Luck is a wish fulfilled. Earned? No! Never!”

“It must be my Scottish roots
but I like to think that luck goes to the deserving.”

She threw back her head and
laughed without reserve. “But you must see that the world does not
work that way! No, never! I have never met a deserving beggar who
has the luck on his side. Have you ever met such a lucky beggar in
your travels, Dr Watson?”

He was quite pink at this stage
and squirming uncomfortably. His philosophies never matched the
real world and yet he persisted with adhering to them. He felt
quite foolish when pressed. “No,” he admitted, “my world view and
reality never match. I’m afraid my philosophy is akin to wishful
thinking.”

“Ah, you are a romantic! I like
that very much in a man! There are not enough romantic men in the
world! There a lot of men who pretend to be romantic, who woo, pay
court, play at romance, but that is not the same, no?”

“No, indeed.”

“It is like someone who goes to
church to pray but in his heart says: there is no God.”

“Yes, quite, the head says one
thing but the heart says another.”

“Which one do you believe, Dr
Watson?”

“About God, you mean?”

“About your head or heart.”

“I don’t have a cut and dried
rule, as such, that I follow rigidly. I weigh up what to believe as
it arises. It has to be based on rational thinking, yes, but I
acknowledge feelings play a part in all of our decisions. We are
sentient beings but we are also influenced by our emotions.”