The Curse of the Singing Wolf (8 page)

“Bravo! I like the way you
explained that. You are an intelligent man as well as a romantic –
that is rare. Countess Varvara is very lucky to have such a wise
travelling companion. Are you intimately acquainted?”

Okay! That did it! He turned
bright red. The word
intimate
could be translated several
different ways, especially by fiery, hot-blooded, sensual
foreigners. “We met only two months ago, so you see we are
not
intimately acquainted, no, just good friends.”

She smiled knowingly, motioning
for her maid to top up the glasses then leave them.

“Do you see how the scenery
changes, Dr Watson?”

He turned to look out of the
window and breathed a sigh of relief. The conversation was getting
a touch too personal for a stiff-lipped Scotsman.

“Some interesting rock
formations,” he said blandly.

“Do you know the legend of the
Pyrenees?”

He shook his head. “I really
don’t know much about this part of the world at all.”

“The Pyrenees get their name
from Pyrene, a princess, daughter of Bebryx, a ruler from Gaul.
Hercules, that mythical hero of men, raped her and then left her to
give birth to a serpent. When she fled her home from shame and wept
out her story to the trees she was torn to pieces by wild beasts.
Only the mountains wept for her and sighed: Pyrene, Pyrene,
Pyrene.”

Countess Volodymyrovna arrived
in the observation car and wondered where Dr Watson had
disappeared. Prince Orczy and Baron Reichenbach were engaged in a
game of chess. The Baron was bound to call checkmate in the next
three moves. Herr von Gunn was reading a newspaper in German and
smoking a Havana. The exotic aroma was quite tantalizing. Colonel
Moriarty was on the rear balcony, leaning negligently against the
railing. For a fleeting moment she wondered if he had pushed Dr
Watson off the train and her heart skipped a beat, but then Herr
von Gunn looked up from his newspaper.

“Your friend has gone to have a
tête-a-tête
with our hostess in her private car.”

Prince Orczy added with
emphasis, “Inez came to issue a personal invitation. We were all
green with envy.”

“Checkmate!” declared the
Baron.

“Oh, thank God for that!”
exclaimed the Prince. “I have been trying my hardest to lose for
the last ten minutes.”

“Balderdash! You just cannot
admit when you have been beaten by a better player! How about a
game von Gunn?”

“Very well, but I will go
ivory. You can take the ebony pieces this time.”

“Another brandy, gentlemen?”
asked the Prince, cracking open a fresh bottle.

“Yes, top up the glasses,
Orczy,” replied the Baron.

The Countess declined the offer
of an afternoon aperitif and slipped out to join Moriarty on the
observation deck. She watched him toss his spent cigarette onto the
railway track and immediately light up another. He offered it to
her, transferring it from his lips, and she took it.

“We have left the forest
behind,” he said laconically. “More rocks, fewer trees.”

She inhaled deeply and blew
bracelets of smoke into the wind. “Turkish or Russian?”

“My own blend. There’s a
tobacconist on Old Bond Street. He makes them up for me and keeps
me supplied. Eugene Goostman & Sons. The Prince of Wales is a
client. Sarah Bernhardt swears by him. Oscar Wilde, when he had the
funds, was a regular customer. I could have some sent to your
London address. In fact, I would consider it an honour, Countess
Varvara, if you would allow me to make a gift of them.”

“I don’t know how long I intend
to be travelling on the Continent. I may not return to London for
several months,” she lied, noting that he addressed her less
formally.

“You will not be returning to
the capital for Christmas?” he pressed.

“I have no plans at this
stage.”

“They have a long life,” he
persisted.

She gazed up at the blanket of
woolly clouds while she inhaled. “I’m sure they do. We might be in
for another rainstorm.”

“Let us hope not.”

She discerned a note of
tension. “Do you fear the track might flood?”

“I fear we are entering
Sarazan’s territory
and
the track might flood.”

“Sarazan?”

“The local warlord. The region
we are entering is rife with brigands who make a living robbing
train travellers and extorting money from hapless pilgrims and
farmers. Not even the poor are spared. If the track floods we will
be at his mercy.”

“Does he always target
trains?”

He gave a curt nod. “Trains are
lucrative. Most of the passengers will have money and valuables on
them. The French government has started employing armed guards on
this particular line but one or two armed guards against ruthless
bandits is an exercise in futility. Last month an engine driver and
several passengers were killed in a gun fight.”

“I presume the Singing Wolf
took some precautions, by that I mean we have some weapons and
ammunition on board?”

“I presume so too, yes, since
she is no fool, plus we all carry our own weapon of choice. You
too, Countess?”

“
Bien sur
.”

He did not look surprised. “And
your servants?”

“They know how to shoot. I can
arm them if the need arises.”

“Once the need arises it will
be too late. We need to confer before dinner to decide how we
intend to defend ourselves. After dinner we will be deep inside
lawless territory and there will be no time to dream up a defensive
strategy.” He glanced through the window into the observation car.
“There’s Dr Watson and our hostess coming to join us now. Let’s go
in and discuss a plan of action.”

Inez was lighting the candles
in the crystal holders. Velazquez was refreshing the brandy
balloons. Colonel Moriarty took the floor.

“The Countess and I were just
discussing Sarazan. What are we going to do in the event of an
attack?”

Velazquez dropped a crystal
glass.

Inez went quickly to help him
gather up the broken pieces.

Dr Watson felt puzzled and
alarmed in equal measure. “I beg your pardon, Colonel? What is
Sarazan? And what attack are we talking about?”

Herr von Gunn answered for him.
“Sarazan is the leader of a group of brigands who roam this region
and terrorize the locals. He is also known to attack trains.” He
paused and allowed his eyes to circle the interior of the car. “We
are all armed, are we not?”

Everyone nodded.

“We must arm the servants too,”
pronounced the Baron. “From this point on, until we reach the
safety of Chanteloup, everyone should remain armed at all times. If
the attack does not come tonight, it may come tomorrow as we travel
on horseback.”

“I’d wager that is the more
likely scenario,” said the Prince. “Sarazan is unlikely to attack a
private train because he will have no way of knowing who is on
board and how much of a fight he will have on his hands, but
tomorrow as we trek through narrow mountain passes he can pick us
off one by one at his leisure.”

Dr Watson’s heart began beating
fast. He was no coward. He had witnessed war first hand and fought
in several battles where men around him gasped their last and he
had not disgraced himself, but this sounded outrageous. The phrase
‘sitting ducks’ stuck in his craw. What sort of holiday was this!
What sort of hell was this! What sort of vipers had he got himself
involved with! They were discussing holding off ruthless brigands
armed to the teeth the way most men would discuss the best strategy
for tackling a scrum of thick-necked rugby players. He turned to
his hostess. She had failed to mention any of this while he had
been enjoying an amontillado in her private car and he felt
incensed at being kept in the dark.

“Has the train ever been
attacked?” he put point blank.

“Once,” she replied without a
trace of tension, “the bandits blocked the train track using a
felled tree trunk. It forced us to come to a sudden halt, but as
soon as they attempted to board and we fired off a few bullets they
fled back to the mountains. They are opportunistic not stupid. They
have no wish to die. They prefer to tackle those who are weak and
defenceless. As soon as they realize they are in for a fight they
turn tail and run.”

That sounded nominally
reassuring. Dr Watson breathed easier.

Colonel Moriarty took the floor
again. “I suggest we take turns keeping watch tonight just to be on
the safe side. The observation platform at the rear of the train is
our weak point. If bandits are going to board the train that will
most likely be the point of entry. I can take the first watch and
then Reichenbach can take over at three o’clock. The second weak
point is the locomotive.” He turned to the Countess. “You said your
man knew how to shoot. He proved himself a brave fellow during that
kitchen fire. I think he should stay with the engine driver and the
stoker. They will be too busy keeping the train going to defend
themselves. It is vital they have someone to provide cover.”

She was impressed by his
astuteness. “I can supply him with a weapon.”

Moriarty continued calling the
shots by the sheer force of his personality which everyone tacitly
acknowledged. “Dr Watson, you can guard the third
wagon-lit
where the Countess will remain with her personal maid by her side.
Orczy can take turns with von Gunn in guarding our hostess in her
private car. The four servants from the Hotel Louve can remain in
the baggage car. If all four are armed they should be able to fend
off an attack.” He turned to the handsome toreador. “Velazquez, you
will be in charge. Make sure that Milo and Desi understand the need
to remain vigilant at all times.”

“Let’s dine early,” suggested
the Baron peremptorily. “It will soon be dark and we don’t want to
be caught out.”

“I propose we eschew getting
changed for dinner and stay as we are,” added von Gunn
melodramatically. “The sooner we are prepared to fend off an attack
the better.”

The night passed tensely but
without drama. Everyone played their part and nerves were so
stretched no one slept for more than hour. The day dawned dull and
grey with a thick November mist that veiled the view from the
train’s widows as the locomotive chugged into the wayside station
of Bogomil, a hamlet of stone hovels, which if they could see, was
actually in the middle of nowhere. Waiting for them was a string of
donkeys and a small herd of fine looking Andalusian horses. They
breakfasted under some dwarfish pine trees while the entire
population of Bogomil, meaning three men, five women and eleven
children, loaded the luggage onto the backs of the donkeys. There
was no sign of any brigands and none had been spotted for several
weeks said one of the Bogomils – a craggy-faced, pipe-smoking,
back-bent crone.

The man who supplied the horses
was called El Lopes. He owned a prosperous farm outside Lourdes and
was of the opinion that Sarazan had moved east, closer to
Carcassonne, to warmer climes ahead of the winter chill and the
first snowfall. He greeted the Singing Wolf in the manner of a
loyal subject greeting Bramimonde, the Queen of Saragossa, and it
seemed he trusted her implicitly to return his precious horses and
pack of donkeys, bidding the party adios and riding off into the
mist with his retinue of heavily armed farmhands as soon as the
loading of bags was underway.

The late autumn sun was
struggling to break through the grey curtain of the Pyrenees as
they set forth north, heading into wild and windswept terrain. This
was poor country, dry and barren in summer, freezing cold in
winter. Granite outcrops dotted the treeless plain.

Colonel Moriarty rode at the
front of the party. Herr von Gunn took up a position in the middle.
Dr Watson and Baron Reichenbach remained at the rear. In between
Moriarty and von Gunn came the horses, after von Gunn stretched the
donkeys and several boys from the clan Bogomil who came along to
keep the animals in line. They would return home once the party
reached its destination safely. Milo, his hands still bandaged,
rode with Velazquez. Desi doubled up with Inez, and everyone noted
that the two women resembled a fairy and an elephant sitting
astride a horse.

As soon as the morning mist
lifted they could see the peak known as Chanteloup rising in the
near-distance. The Chateau de Chanteloup was still under cloud
cover. It was reputed to be a Cathar stronghold, but in reality
most of the fortresses in these parts pre-dated Catharism. Some had
foundations that went back to the days of Roman domination. Later
they served as French garrisons strengthened during the Hundred
Years War. Many were again enlarged during the Wars of Religion
between the Catholics and the Huguenots. They were amazing feats of
architecture, not because of their style – for they had none of the
beauty of the Romanesque or Gothic – but because they were perched
precariously on precipices that defied belief. They had walls ten
feet thick and vertiginous defensive towers that soared
skyward.

The journey was slow-going. The
terrain was rough and the donkeys were plodders. Everyone was wary
of being ambushed whenever they passed a copse of scraggly oaks or
a cluster of rocks that might provide hiding places for brigands.
By midday they reached the southern foothills of Chanteloup and
stopped at a small clearing where the horses and donkeys could crop
some grass.

“
Plat de cremats
,”
whispered the Bogomil boys, crossing themselves Catholic style,
“the place where heretics were burned in the year of Our Lord
1244.”

Lunch was a cup of cold coffee
and some crusty bread. They did not light a fire for fear of
bringing attention to themselves, and the irony was not lost on any
of the travellers. The young Bogomils kept watch while they wolfed
down their simple repast.