The Curse Of The Diogenes Club (23 page)

Longchamps was one of the few
stately homes in England that had retained its Tudor tennis court
in situ. Back in Tudor times, tennis was played indoors and was
accompanied by heady gambling. Henry VII and Henry VIII had both
been keen on the game, and though neither had played at Longchamps,
many of their courtiers had.

There was no way on earth Major
Nash was going to protect Mycroft Holmes from an assassin all the
way from the oratory. The ADC had messed up badly and she wasted no
time in telling him when he arrived first thing Saturday morning on
the milk train (to avoid any chance of assassination attempts on
the normal train) with Mycroft Holmes in tow looking bleary-eyed
and bewildered to be so far from Pall Mall.

“I know what I’m doing,” the
major responded obstinately. “Don’t tell me how to protect Mr
Holmes. Having said that, thank you for the use of your servants
and all you’ve done to make this weekend pleasant for all
concerned. Leave the rest to me.”

Leave the rest to me!

Shooting Mycroft would be like
shooting a big fish in a small barrel. She went straight to Dr
Watson, still sleeping in his four poster hamlet.

“One of us needs to swap
bedrooms with Mycroft,” she said with peremptory bluntness,
outlining the dangers. “I would go but Xenia and Fedir have settled
themselves in the adjoining boudoir and dressing room.”

“I’ll go,” he volunteered at
once. “It will put me closer to the stable-yard and I’ll be able to
keep an eye on Sherlock. He seems a bit jittery. I don’t know if
he’s taking too much cocaine or not enough. Yesterday, during the
spin in the Semper Vivus, he kept muttering jay, jay, jay, jay,
jay…”

Major Nash was furious when he
discovered Mycroft Holmes had moved into the connecting master
suite at the behest of the Countess, and that Dr Watson had
transferred his belongings to the downstairs bedroom.

“What do you think you’re
doing?” he hissed when he cornered her on the stairs straight after
breakfast.

“Protecting a man I care about
deeply,” she returned with hauteur, staring coldly at the hand
manacling her upper arm. “Don’t make this personal.”

“What?”

“Don’t make this personal,” she
repeated calmly. “You need to remain objective and unemotional or
this weekend will turn into a disaster. Now, let go my arm.”

He was about to tell her the
weekend had already turned into a disaster when the first of their
guests arrived. It was Sir James Damery, General de Merville and
Violet de Merville. They had caught the first train out of London
so that Violet could catch a glimpse of ‘dawn’s dappled light’ on
the weald. Unfortunately, the fog was so thick it was impossible to
see beyond the train track.

Unbeknownst to them, on the
same train had been Mr Blague and Miss Mona Blague, but their
carriage driver got lost in the fog once they left Hollingbourne
Station and they did not arrive at Longchamps for three-quarters of
an hour, having detoured through the hamlets of Knyvely, Chaffley
and Netherwoodly.

As soon as the young ladies had
changed out of their travelling costumes and appeared downstairs in
the great hall in suitable morning dresses, morning tea was served.
Everyone was impressed with the house, especially the general who
had described it as a hovel.

“Splendid house, Nash,” he
praised magnanimously, picturing Violet as the next chatelaine of
Longchamps.

Mr Blague was picturing Mona in
the same role; Lady Mona Nash had a nice ring to it and he needed
an intelligent son-in-law who could take over the family business
one day. The major was an enterprising fellow and completely wasted
in the role of glorified nurse-maid to that simpering Mr
Holmes.

Major Nash cemented his
high-standing in the eyes of his guests when he gave them a tour of
the Elizabethan knot garden and the topiary garden which had been
shaped in the likeness of figures on a chess board.

Mycroft and the Countess stood
side by side at the triple bay window in the master suite and gazed
pensively at the visitors strolling along the gravel path.

“This is a waste of time. I’ve
got a million things to do back in London.”

“Nice try Uncle Mycroft but
burying your head in the sand isn’t going to help. We both know
that someone inside your club is after your job. If it is not one
of our guests it must be someone who is using them to further their
own ends. That incident with the dog in the night was another near
miss. How many people knew you were going to Baker Street?”

“No one knew. I only just
decided it when I decided to escort you home.”

“Well, someone clearly knew.
They had the rabid dog at the scene in record time.”

Mycroft shuddered at the
memory.

She gazed down at the young
baronet leading the party. He played the role of host and statesman
rather well. And he was in the dome room when Mycroft announced his
plans. And he had rushed away to organize a shooter to sit
alongside the coachman. Had he also organized the man with the dog?
“Do you consider Major Nash ambitious?”

“All young men of reasonable
intelligence are ambitious. I’d be concerned if they weren’t. What
are you implying, young lady?”

“You recent promotion to primus
baro has raised his profile too?”

“If you think he is trying to
bump me off to further his career you are way off the mark.”

“But if he were elected to the
committee he could then put himself up for election as primus
baro?”

“Nonsense!”

“Are you saying it is
impossible?”

“I’m saying it is
nonsensical!”

She gazed back down at the
party strolling in the garden. Had Major Nash proposed this weekend
to further his own ambitions? Was it a chance for him to ingratiate
himself with Damery, Blague and de Merville, three men whose future
support could be invaluable? Or was one of them backing him
already? Unquestionably, Major Nash had been a loyal ADC but he
wouldn’t be the first ambitious young man who saw a chance to
better himself and by changing sides, seized the day. Is that why
he was so angry she had re-allocated Mycroft’s bedroom?

Before Major Nash returned to
the house with his guests, she slipped out to the stable to speak
to Sherlock and Dr Watson and air her suspicions regarding their
charming host. Mr Dixie kept an eye out to make sure they weren’t
about to be interrupted.

“This weekend was
his
idea,” reminded Dr Watson, “and I didn’t like the sound of it from
the start. Mycroft is a sitting duck in this rambling pile.”

Agitated and restless, aware of
all the things that could go wrong now that they were at
Longchamps, unhappy about the number of things out of his control,
Sherlock paced the horse stalls. “Jay, jay, jay, jay,” he mumbled
over and over before plucking the cufflink from his pocket. “I
found this under the dressing table in the princess’s bedroom at
Clarges Hotel,” he said, handing it to his daughter.

“J,” she said, relieved he
wasn’t losing the plot after all. “You think it might belong to the
mysterious lover you believed was in bed with the princess the
morning the prince arrived unannounced?”

Sherlock nodded. “We can deduce
from Prince Sergei’s behaviour in the hotel room that he had
already seen the body of his wife in the bath. We extrapolated from
that deduction that he killed her or induced her to commit suicide,
but what if he arrived after her lover had just done the deed and
was preparing to leave when the prince arrived unannounced? The
prince saw the body in the bath but he did not kill the princess
because she was already dead. Whoever was in bed with the princess
could have fled unseen.”

“J is the lover,” agreed the
Countess, “But who is J? James Damery?”

“Or Josiah de Merville,”
supplied Sherlock as an alternative to the obvious.

“Colonel James Moriarty!” cried
Dr Watson.

The Countess shook her head.
“This cufflink is solid gold. I don’t believe he could afford it.
Besides, his cufflinks are all engraved with the initials JIM.”

“Nicely observed, my dear,”
praised Sherlock with a wry grin. “Did you happen to observe the
cufflinks of our handsome host?”

She rolled her eyes. “No need,
his name is Inigo.”

“Yes, but his father was
Jonathan Nash and his mother’s maiden name was Jantzen. He may have
inherited some family keepsakes which he occasionally wears.”

She made a mental note to check
for a cufflink box in the oratory at the first opportunity.

“What is Mr Blague’s first
name?” quizzed Sherlock.

“Bruce,” supplied the Countess.
“I better get back to the house. I’ve left Mycroft alone for too
long.”

“Before you go,” said Sherlock.
“One of the men in the dome room on the night of the ball must have
set the timer on the first bomb. It might be worth finding out more
about what was going on in there just prior to everyone leaving to
go to the lake.”

“I can answer some of it,” she
replied. “Mrs Klein made the suggestion to Mr Blague about smoking
a hookah. She was supposed to join the men up there but she did not
arrive. When the notion of a duel presented itself, which was
proposed by Prince Sergei who happened to have duelling pistols in
his carriage, three men were keen to follow through immediately.
They were Mr Blague, General de Merville and Prince Sergei. They
wanted to vacate the dome room as soon as possible, only Sir Damery
demurred. He even suggested they wait till the next morning, which
I believe is in accord with the Code Duello. Major Nash and Colonel
Moriarty were both keen to go ahead as soon as possible. So, apart
from Damery, the other five were keen to leave.”

“Hmm,” murmured Sherlock
circumspectly. “I wonder who was last to leave the room?”

“I was on the dance floor and
saw General de Merville, Prince Sergei and Mr Blague cross the
foyer together well ahead of the others. Sir Damery came later with
Major Nash and Colonel Moriarty in tow.”

“Speak to your maid again,”
suggested Sherlock, spotting Mr Dixie gesticulating wildly. “Ask
her if she remembers anyone else milling about who could have gone
up to that room afterwards. Someone must be coming. Let’s move out
of sight behind these hay bales.”

The arrival of Colonel Moriarty
on his horse knocked them for six. Was he here in the capacity of
assassin? And who had hired him? Fear held them rigid as they
waited for him to dismount, unsaddle his carpet bag and head toward
the front porch whistling an Irish folk tune.

Mr Dixie began to unsaddle the
horse. “This horse ain’t come from London. It ain’t sheened with
sweat and lather. It’s come from somewhere nearby.”

Terrified and intrigued, Dr
Watson and the Countess re-entered the house using the door closest
to the stable-yard and arrived in the great hall, joining up with
the rest of the party, just as Colonel Moriarty was being shown in
by Ponsonby.

Major Nash leapt from his seat;
eyes blazing fiercely. “What the deuce!” he cursed, forgetting
himself in front of the ladies. “What are you doing here?” he
demanded brusquely, noting the bulging carpet bag that signalled a
houseguest who intended to stay.

Undeterred, the colonel
appeared as cocky as ever, if not cockier. “My invitation must have
gone astray; an easy thing to happen since I move about a fair bit
when I’m in London. I hope I’m not too late for lunch.”

The grandfather clock began to
strike twelve and everyone braced for the possibility of Major Nash
striking Colonel Moriarty. Breaths were drawn as everyone recalled
the duel by the lake that didn’t quite play out to the bitter
end.

But Major Nash was quick to
temper himself. The dark flush highlighting his cut-glass
cheekbones that signalled rousing anger faded away as swiftly as it
came. He addressed himself to Ponsonby. “I’ll show the colonel to
his room. Leave it with me. Serve lunch in half an hour. We cannot
wait any longer for Prince Sergei and Mrs Klein. As soon as the
ladies change into fresh clothes we will sit down.”

He flashed a devastating smile
at his female guests who took the hint and proceeded upstairs to
put on something dressier that would take them into the afternoon.
Morning costumes tended to be unfussy, usually in cotton or wool,
perhaps with soutache swirls, a touch of embroidery, a contrasting
ribbon or a pinch-pleated frill, while afternoon costumes featured
beautiful brocades and velvets edged in fur. Tea gowns tended to be
more romantic: cutwork linen or delicate Bobbin lace or Irish
crochet, but the real fashion show would not start until after dark
when ladies would appear as painterly visions draped in lustrous
fabrics – silk, satin, taffeta, chiffon - like kinetic works of art
covered in beads and jewels that glittered in the candlelight.

The men likewise thought they
might freshen up prior to lunch and followed the ladies.

Major Nash indicated for the
colonel to follow him in the opposite direction and the Countess
guessed their host intended to install his uninvited guest in the
valet’s room next door to Dr Watson who had taken over the ground
floor bedroom from Mycroft. A wise choice, she thought, until she
realized he would be able to see from his small window every time
Dr Watson visited the stable, and he would soon see through Mr
Dixie’s and Sherlock’s disguise too.

“There’s a spare room
upstairs,” she called after the two men, deciding it would be
easier to keep an eye on the colonel if his bedroom came off the
upper gallery.

Major Nash looked back over his
shoulder and another dark flush highlighted his cheekbones.
“What?”

“There are ten bedrooms coming
off the upper gallery and only nine of them are being used. Colonel
Moriarty can take the tenth.”

Colonel Moriarty had already
started to wonder where Nash might be leading him. He had noticed
the other guests tripping up the main stairs. He suspected his old
cadre might be ushering him to the servants’ quarters. He wouldn’t
put it past the baronet to treat him like the hired help. He
swivelled on his heel and began to follow the Countess up the
stairs. He liked her plan better.