The Curse of the Singing Wolf (26 page)

“The chute in the garderobe,”
suggested the Baron. “I know it is fitted with an iron grid but the
spacing is wider than that of the portcullis. If the body had been
chopped up it could have been pushed through the openings. He had
all night. He could have used the axe in the wood yard, wrapped the
bloody limbs in rags or even used garments from her closet, and
shoved them out of sight that way.”

“A bit gruesome,” said the
Prince distastefully, spearing a morsel of stewed bunny swimming
red juices. “Remind me not to get on your wrong side, Reichenbach.
However, I see nothing wrong with your reasoning. And since we are
talking axes – he could have chopped the body up and thrown it over
the side for the wolves to feast on.”

“They are probably feasting on
him
as we speak,” observed von Gunn blandly. “It is a
fitting end to the handsome devil if that is the case.”

“He could have simply hidden
the body under the wood stack,” offered Moriarty. “The simplest
alternative is often the most successful despite what some of these
gothique novelists would have us believe. I don’t believe Velazquez
had a lot of imagination. Recall that story Desi told about him
murdering his friend by shoving him in the way of el toro during
the bull-run in Pamplona – simple, effective and successful.” He
finished speaking and looked directly at the lady seated to his
right.

“I cannot offer a scenario,”
she said simply. “I don’t believe he murdered the Singing
Wolf.”

She looked at Dr Watson seated
at the far end of the table. He had not spoken a single syllable
since they sat down to dinner. He gave a careless shrug of his
shoulders as he drained his glass of grand cru. He was looking a
little red-faced but it was not from exertion or embarrassment.
He’d had enough red wine to drown a whole vat of hapless
bunnies.

“I have no opinion on the
matter whatsoever.”

As far as he was concerned he
couldn’t care less who murdered their missing hostess or where her
body had been stashed. He was sick to death of murder mysteries. He
was through with chasing down clues and speculating about motive
and catching criminals. What the Countess had done was criminal. He
wanted to take her by the shoulders and give her a violent shake.
In fact, he was so angry he could have hit her - a shocking thing
to admit, especially as he had always prided himself on being a
gentleman. If not for the memory of his dear departed Mary, he
might have lost control. It was only the preciousness of his
undying love for her that compelled him to remember not every woman
had the same moral principles. Still, it came as a blow. He had
grown fond of the Countess. He had started to regard her as a boon
companion. They had experienced much in the short time they had
been thrust together, and though he had often carped and
complained, he had secretly enjoyed every minute. She had given his
stale old life new purpose and meaning and fillip – a joie de vivre
no man his age could sensibly hope for. Sometimes, he even regarded
her as the daughter he’d never had. How often had he said to
himself: Mary would have liked her. Mary would have approved. In
fanciful moments he even imagined Mary looking down at him and
smiling, happy that he had found someone with whom to share fresh
adventures. He had told himself Sherlock would have approved too.
He had almost managed to convince himself that she was who she said
she was and that all would end well. He had even started to picture
a happy family reunion in Sussex at Christmastime. Ha! Fool that he
was! Old fool! The worst sort! If she was who she claimed to be
then she was her mother’s daughter, NOT her father’s! She had
betrayed the memory of her father, no, worse, she had trampled that
memory in the dust, she had trampled all over it, she had sullied
it and soiled it, she was undeserving of respect and credit, she
did not deserve to be acknowledged as the daughter of Sherlock
Holmes!

“I thall call it a night,
gentlemen,” he lisped.

“Are you all right?” queried
the Irishman, noting how the doctor appeared to sway dangerously
from side to side as he pushed to his feet.

“I am perfectly fine, thank
you, Colonel Moriarty,” he returned somewhat pompously, wondering
why the room had started spinning. He navigated his way past the
sideboard, snatched up the bottle of sherry, and began weaving like
a drunken sailor in a storm toward the archway that led to the east
corridor, though it appeared that someone had moved it since he had
last ventured that way. “A pleathant goodnight to one and all,” he
slurred, “and the Counteth too.”

They watched him wrestle with
the tapestry until he found an opening and squeezed through it.

“I cannot abide men who cannot
hold their liquor,” pronounced von Gunn, mopping up the last of his
juices.

“I’d say someone has rubbed the
good doctor the wrong way,” commented the Prince a little more
sympathetically.

“Don’t look at me!” defended
Moriarty. “I had nothing to do with what happened to his friend. I
am
not
my brother!”

“Nor me!” vowed Reichenbach. “I
have gone out of my way to be civil to the doctor.”

“I suppose it was the death of
his friend that turned him into a dipsomaniac,” said the Prince
sadly. “He probably blamed himself for not doing enough to prevent
it.” He turned to the Countess. “How long have you been acquainted
with the doctor?”

“We met two months ago.”

“And you have been travelling
together since?”

“Yes – and I have never known
him to drink to excess.”

“I believe I read in one of his
stories that his brother was an alcoholic,” said the Baron. “It is
a moral aberration that can run in families. Shall we go back to
what we were discussing?”

“There is no point speculating
further as to the whereabouts of the body of our hostess,” said
Moriarty crisply. “We have no idea where it is and that is that.
Can we have a show of hands: Who thinks she was murdered by
Sarazan?” The Countess raised her hand. “Who thinks she was
murdered by Velazquez?” The four men all raised their hands.

That was that!

Desi and Xenia arrived to clear
the plates. Inez, puffy-eyed, served the apple pie that had
remained untouched from the night before. Conversation moved to the
topic of the opera while the servants were present.

Reichenbach directed his
question at von Gunn. “The Countess was enquiring prior to dinner
which opera launched the career of the Singing Wolf. Orczy said it
was Otello. But I have since wondered if in fact it might have been
Rigoletto and she sang the role of Gilda.”

“No, no, definitely Otello! She
wore a red and gold dress that clung to every curve. I remember it
well. How could you forget? I admit it was many years ago but it
made a lasting impression on me! Remember the role of the jealous
hero! He was as black as the ace of spades and as fat as a plum
pudding on legs! Iago was handsomer and stronger but he was the
wrong colour!”

“No, no,” said the Prince.
“Otello’s blacking almost melted in the limelight. It was Iago who
was actually black. They powdered his face to whiten it. It took on
a sickly hue and made him look even more evil. The lady I was with
trembled every time he came on stage. I remember her grabbing my
thigh whenever he sang the high notes.”

“That sounds right!” laughed
von Gunn. “That’s exactly the sort of thing you would remember,
Orczy! You lucky devil!”

The servants retreated and the
Countess changed the subject.

“I think there is no need to
sleep in here tonight, gentlemen. It is clear the phantom does not
exist. It was merely someone in the kitchen singing, the sound
floated up the stairwell and even into the dungeon. Our
imaginations did the rest. The gate is locked. The portcullis is
down. We can bolt our doors. I do not believe we will be murdered
in our beds. Whether it was Sarazan or Velazquez or even a third
party who killed our hostess and disposed of her body seems
immaterial. By tomorrow the path should be clear of rocks and we
can place the mystery into the hands of the gendarmerie. They will
summon the Surete if there is any question of foul play.”

“Here! Here!” came the chorus.
There was but one dissenter.

It was Moriarty.

“I don’t agree. I cannot
dismiss what has happened so breezily. I cannot put it down to
heightened imagination. There are too many unresolved questions. If
you wouldn’t mind allowing your manservant, Fedir, to join me here
in the great hall, the two of us can take turns keeping watch
during the night. I do not ask that anyone else disturb themselves.
All I ask is that you, Countess, keep your maid with you in your
bedroom throughout the night and that you keep your door
bolted.”

Xenia and Fedir were waiting
for the Countess in her bedchamber. She asked Fedir if he would
mind keeping the Irishman company in the great hall for the night,
stressing that there would be just the two of them. He said he was
happy to do it.

“Do you trust him?” she asked
her manservant, interested to hear what he would say since she
already knew Xenia didn’t trust the Irishman one inch.

“Yes,” said Fedir. “He thinks
before he speaks and he is neither a coward like the Spaniard nor a
blusterer like the German.”

“Hmm, well, make sure you do
not divulge anything about my background. Pretend not to understand
him if he asks you any questions. Xenia will be sleeping in my
bedchamber tonight. Wake me should anything happen. Dr Watson has
had too much to drink. Let him sleep late tomorrow. Keep your wits
about you.”

Fedir departed and Xenia bolted
the door.

“Did you learn anything else
from the servants?” the Countess put to her maid as the candles
were extinguished and there was just the red glow from the fire
casting strange shadows against the stones.

“Yes,” said Xenia. “I know
where the doll went. Inez had it in her room. She had it hidden
under her pillow. The old woman was looking for it everywhere and
she accused Inez of stealing it. Inez tried to hang onto it but the
old woman slapped her hard across the face.”

“Oh, yes, I saw the red
welts.”

“Inez screamed out some
horrible things in Spanish but the old woman laughed at her and
snatched the doll away from her. She made some curses to Inez and
made the sign of slitting the throat. Inez looked terrified and
fell to her knees and sobbed and sobbed. I went to console her and
she confessed she had once had a baby. She had been raped by a
priest and had given birth to a little girl. The baby had been
given away as soon as it was born and she was still pining for it.
It broke my heart to listen to her story.”

“Yes, a sad story but what
interests me is that the old woman is not as frail and helpless as
she seems?”

“No, she was not afraid to
stand up to Inez who has the fiery temper of the gitanos in her hot
Spanish blood.”

“Did you learn anything about
Desi?”

“Only that she is an orphan.
She does not like to talk about herself. Every time I asked
something she would start moaning about being over-worked and
always tired.”

“There appears to be bad blood
between her and Inez?”

“Yes, I think it is jealousy.
Desi is jealous of Inez because Velazquez goes to the bed of Inez.
I think Desi was in love with Velazquez but he would not look at
her unless he was very drunk.”

“But Inez seems to hold some
grudge against Desi too, though it cannot be jealousy because she
could have had Velazquez any time she wanted.”

“I think Desi knows about Inez’
secret baby. She threatens Inez with the telling.”

“Yes, that makes sense. Inez is
Catholic, she wouldn’t want it known she had a baby out of wedlock,
though it would be commonplace among poor girls and men of power.
It makes my blood boil when I think of the hypocrisy of the men
involved and the misogyny of the church. I was fortunate my mother
saw fit to sell me to the Count of Odessos who loved me as a father
should. My life might have been quite different otherwise.”

Xenia didn’t reply. Some people
were born lucky and others weren’t. It was the will of God or the
gods or the stars – she wasn’t sure which but the older she got the
more she thought it might be down to dumb luck.

The Countess closed her eyes
and allowed her mind to drift. She thought about her happy
childhood in Odessa. She thought about the doll Inez tried to hide,
she thought about the dead girl-child who had once belonged to
someone here in the castle, she thought about the Singing Wolf - a
mysterious creature who seemed to surround herself with servants
who had a dark secret in their lives. Velazquez, Inez and Milo all
had something to hide. Desi was the odd one out. Her past was
probably as uneventful as her present. That’s why she never spoke
of it. There was nothing to speak of. That is not to say there
would have been no suffering, but it was the sort of daily
suffering that was borne stoically. She complained endlessly about
being over-worked and tired because that was all she had to
complain about, little realizing that no one was listening.

“What do you think of
Desi?”

“She is spiteful, that one.
Sometimes I see a look on her face that gives me the shiver from
Siberia.”

“Mmm, I want you to find out if
Desi has a secret, something she doesn’t like to talk about. It
won’t be easy to get it out of her. Perhaps Inez or Milo knows
something. Ask them first. Now, lets’ go to sleep.”

Cold white light was streaming
in through the latticed glass in the lancet windows when Xenia
heard a tap on the door. It was Fedir. He and Moriarty had taken
turns keeping watch during the night and had thought they were on a
fool’s errand when about thirty minutes ago something had flitted
up the spiral stairs. They were both wide awake because a loud
noise from the kitchen had woken them. They gave chase immediately.
They both swore it went into the bedchamber of the south tower, but
search as they might, they could find nothing. Moriarty was
currently poised on the landing to make sure that whatever or
whoever it was did not flee back down the stairs. It was Fedir who
insisted on waking his mistress, so here he was.