The Curse Of The Diogenes Club (21 page)

“How did you find the Turkish
Baths, Watson?” quizzed Sherlock. “Up to scratch?”

“They were superb. I couldn’t
fault them. Clean, airy, well-ventilated, excellent masseurs, and
beautifully decorated with Moorish tiles. Mrs Klein has superb
taste and has certainly improved things.”

“Many men there?” he
pursued.

“Oh, yes, the place was busier
than Trafalgar Square, men coming and going, here and there, in and
out, and yet I was surprised at how easy it was to hear the
conversation in the next alcove.”

“How so?”

“Well, I put it down to the
trellis of brickwork. The walls only go part way up and then they
are trellised. It allows for steam to circulate and promotes
healthy ventilation.”

“According to Freddy it
promotes other things,” gibed Moriarty.

The other three men turned to
look at him.

“Explain yourself,” said
Sherlock.

“Well, Freddy claims some of
the bricks are hollow and listening devices have been installed.
They amplify the sound and direct it to various hidden
chambers.”

“For the purposes of
blackmail?” reasoned Sherlock.

“So it would seem,” said
Moriarty. “What’s more, some rooms are restricted to young men who
pay a premium for a private massage.”

“More blackmail,” added
Sherlock with disgust.

Moriarty nodded. “I cannot
confirm any of what I just told you. I didn’t ask Freddy where he
got it from. He does tend to exaggerate things. It’s a way of
big-noting himself.”

“Understood,” said Sherlock,
comprehending why the colonel said ‘never’ with such
conviction.

Mycroft drained his brandy and
with a yawn levered his bulky frame out of his padded seat.
“Goodnight, gentlemen, I shall catch up with you shortly in Kent,
except for you, Colonel Moriarty. Thank you once again for saving
my life.” He reached the door and paused. “By the way, January the
sixth, which happens to be epiphany or twelfth night or Orthodox
Christmas Eve – whichever you prefer – marks the twenty-fifth
birthday of Countess Volodymyrovna. We shall not turn the event
into a fanfare but a small gift may be appropriate. Bear in mind
nothing you buy will be as valuable as that which she can buy for
herself. A few lines of original heartfelt verse on a scrap of
paper will be appreciated more than the Crown jewels of
England.”

Sherlock was up at first light,
rugged up in his Inverness cape and deerstalker hat, tramping
around the lake in search of the mythical Snark. He quickly found
the spot where the body went into the water, evidenced by two sets
of footprints and something heavy being dragged along the muddy
waterline.

There were also five sets of
footprints around the pump house. Now, Colonel Moriarty had stayed
behind last night to recount the events of the night he met Major
Nash in the Copper Beech wood. The two men had started off in the
wood then moved separately around the perimeter of the lake and met
up again by the pump house. That meant two sets of prints belonged
to the two of them and three belonged to persons unknown.

A peremptory search of the pump
house immediately revealed scraps of fabric that had been caught on
protruding nails. Someone had strangled the photographer by hand,
either inside the pump house, or somewhere else and then tossed the
body into the pump house for a short period of time. So, was the
man strangled before he went into the pump house or after he went
in?

Logic suggested the
photographer needed to disappear in a hurry after placing that
third bomb in position on the hall table. The pump house made for a
perfect hiding place. Someone later turned up, time unknown,
strangled him and left him for dead. The following night two men –
as indicated by the footprints - dragged the dead body to the lake
and dumped it.

The splash heard by Major Nash
and Colonel Moriarty suggests the body remained hidden in the pump
house until the following night when it could be safely disposed
of.

Yes, it fit the facts.

Unfortunately, it did not tell
him who hired the photographer in the first place. That would
require deductive reasoning beyond a series of physical clues. It
would require an intuitive grasp of the eternal human motivators
called revenge, greed, ambition, power and lust.

Roses are red, violets are
blue…

Dr Watson tried for an hour to
pen a few lines of original heartfelt verse before giving up and
remembering he had something on his bookshelf that was better. He
tied it with a bow and proceeded to the Aga Hammam Baths. Colonel
Moriarty was there ahead of him, collecting his towel from the
attendant.

“Hello, Dr Watson.”

“I thought you said you never
came here?”

“I changed my mind. Tell me
which comes first. Is it tepidarium or caldarium?”

“Tepidarium, caldarium,
frigidarium and then it’s the massage?”

“I’ve booked a private massage
for later.”

“Brave man – good luck with
that.”

Colonel Moriarty laughed and
accompanied the doctor to the tepidarium.

“What was Sherlock Holmes doing
with that telescopic device fitted over his right eye?”

Dr Watson had noted the
colonel’s curious gaze the previous evening and had been expecting
the questions to come thick and fast as he showed him to the door;
he had therefore prepared his answers in advance. “He was studying
some cigar ash when that terrible business with the black dog
happened. He just left it on. Sometimes he leaves it on all day. He
forgets it’s even there.”

Colonel Moriarty seemed to
accept the explanation as they settled on some benches in the warm
steam room.

“I could have sworn I heard his
left arm crank and whirr when he and I picked up the dead dog and
tossed it into the wheelbarrow. It hissed like a mechanical
snake.”

Thankfully Sherlock had his old
dressing gown over the top of his exo-skeleton arm. “You’re very
perceptive. He was experimenting with a mechanical sleeve. He has
attached a clock and various useful battery-fed devices to a
leather sleeve.”

“What for?”

“He is hoping to do away with
pockets - he is forever losing things - plus it allows him to have
numerous useful items on hand at all times; handy in his line of
work.”

“I see.”

A couple of men joined them on
the benches and nothing more was said until they transferred
themselves to the caldarium which they had to themselves.

“I was wondering about
Sherlock’s left boot,” said Moriarty with a curious inflection. “It
didn’t match the boot on his right leg.”

“A result of his accident from
that time at Reichenbach Falls in 1891. The plunge over the cliff
left him with a slight limp. He is a bit embarrassed about it. He
can be quite vain.”

Mention of Reichenbach Falls
always caused Moriarty to flinch. It was no secret his mad,
professorial, elder sibling had tried to kill Mr Holmes, and over
the years he had discovered it was common for people to hold the
entire clan guilty for the actions of one. He was thus sensitive to
the long draw of the bow.

“This heat is getting to me.
I’ll leave you to it and try out the frigidarium before I take that
private massage.”

The cold plunge pool took the
heat out of his sensitivity so that by the time he stretched out on
the bench for his massage he was back in control of his emotions.
When the handsome young masseur got around to his private parts, a
swift kick to his groin was all it took to set him straight about
where to keep his hands. A peep hole in the mural of the Alhambra
told him there was a camera lens on the other side of the wall. It
was aimed at the bed.

A nice little earner for Mrs
Isadora Klein.

When he emerged from his
private massage he decided to hunt out Dr Watson in one of the
alcoves but ran into Inigo Nash in the frigidarium instead.

“What are you doing here?” he
snarled.

“Same as you.”

“Have you seen Dr Watson?”

“He just left. Why?”

Moriarty decided to take the
plunge. He shed his towel and hopped in next to Nash.

“Not too close,” warned Nash.
“People will talk and you’re not my type.”

“Shut up and listen.” He
lowered his voice and told him who owned the Baths and also about
the private massage room.

“That explains the entourage of
dopey puppies trailing in her wake,” said Nash ruefully, glancing
round to make sure no one was watching them. The frigidarium sat in
the centre of the Aga Hammam Baths making it possible to see
everyone coming and going. “Don’t look now but Malamtov just
arrived. Take your best shot at my jaw.”

Moriarty smiled broadly. “This
must be my lucky day.”

He balled his fist and let fly
but Nash dodged. Before he knew it he was on the receiving end of
something that felt like a sledgehammer. He fell backwards with a
mighty splash, swallowed a mouthful of ice water, surfaced, shook
himself the way a dog does when it wants to dry off, and took aim a
second time, determined not to miss, but Nash blocked him and a
wrestling match ensued where neither man could best the other. They
resembled two fighting fish in a freezing cold pool. A small crowd
gathered, including Prince Malamtov. Some of the men were taking
bets. It was almost like old times. No, it was exactly like old
times.

Wild horses would not keep Miss
Mona Blague from Longchamps. After missing out on the
heart-stopping excitement of three bombs she was determined to go
to Kent. Even before arriving for lunch at Mayfair Mews she had
heard all about the dashing Major ‘Horatio Hornblower’ Nash and the
genuine Russian prince who was newly widowed. When her daddy
suggested she take his place at the opera with the Vanderlindens
she laughed in his face, picked up her reticule and went to the
House of Papillon to order three new evening gowns, a white lace
peignoir, and a black silk corset with red ribbon lacing.

Violet de Merville was equally
determined. “I made sure papa RSVP’d Mr Holmes
and
Major
Nash at the Diogenes Club first thing this morning. Kent is lovely
at this time of year if one overlooks the sea-fog, the marsh mist
and the constant drizzle.”

Prince Sergei was enjoying the
warm air in the tepidarium when Sir James Damery sauntered in,
feeling lethargic and out of sorts.

“You just missed a spectacle,”
said the prince eagerly.

“Really,” remarked the other,
feigning interest, “what was that?”

“Two men brawling in the
frigidarium. It was the same two men who were duelling on the night
of the ball.”

Damery perked up. “Major Nash
and Colonel Moriarty?”

“Yes, they were frog-marched
out of here by four Mamelukes and told not to return for the rest
of the month.”

“What was the brawl about? Do
you know?”

“Probably that provocative
Ukrainian – Varvara Volodymyrovna! Her step-aunt was exactly the
same. Zoya Volodymyrovna only had to look at a man to provoke him.
Men duelled over her every month. The Tsar tried to put a stop to
it when he realized half his equerries were dead or seriously
injured but it was impossible. Those two young men did not resolve
anything on the night of the ball and it is festering. Fortunately
the Irishman is not on the guest list for Longchamps or it would be
a debacle.”

“Will we see you at Longchamps,
Prince Malamtov?”

“I have plans to go to Scotland
– some grouse shooting. I am not really interested in this bomb
business. It has nothing to do with me. In Russia we would line up
all the suspects and shoot them. Do you know if the Valkyrie is
going to Kent?”

“Yes, she has accepted the
invitation.”

“And Countess Varvara?”

“She is going too.”

“And Miss de Merville?”

“The invitation was declined by
the general but Miss de Merville forced a turnaround.”

Malamtov laughed heartily. “He
of Khyber Pass fame raised the white flag! Ha! What about the
daughter of that rich American?”

“Oh, yes, Miss Mona Blague is
definitely going.”

Prince Sergei leaned against
the wall of the tepidarium and closed his eyes for a few minutes.
“I think grouse shooting is highly overrated as a sport. One might
as well shoot chickens in a hen-house. I think I might go to Kent
instead.”

“We need to talk,” said Major
Nash after he and Colonel Moriarty were ignominiously evicted from
the Aga Hammam Baths by four Persians who looked like angry djinns
out of the Arabian Nights.

They were standing on one of
the busiest thoroughfares in London with shirts hanging out,
waistcoats unbuttoned, damp socks and perfectly matching
scowls.

Moriarty got his back up at
once. He knew exactly what the baronet wanted to discuss and he
wasn’t about to back off. It rankled that he had been excluded from
the weekend at Longchamps and now that he knew it was the
Countess’s birthday it rankled even more.

“Forget it,” he snarled. “I’m
not giving you a clear run past the first post.”

“Too late. But that’s not what
I want to discuss. This is serious.”

“And the Countess isn’t? What
do you mean – too late?”

“Forget I said it. Let’s get
some lunch.”

“Where did you have in mind?
The way we look we won’t get into anything except a gin
palace.”

Major Nash smoothed back his
wet hair and considered their options. “We’ll go to the Carlton
Club. I’m a member there as well as the Diogenes and they’re not as
fussy about wet socks and mismatched buttons.”

Hearing that Nash was a member
of two exclusive clubs while he was a member of none, pissed
Moriarty off even more but he wasn’t about to turn down a free
lunch and the chance to step foot inside the prestigious Carlton
Club. He hailed a hansom and off they went, aligning mismatched
buttons, tucking in their shirts and doing up their waistcoats as
the cab swung past Trafalgar Square and rolled smoothly down Pall
Mall, past the firmly shut doors of the Diogenes Club.