The Curse of the Singing Wolf (32 page)

“Hang on a moment,” interrupted
the Countess, remembering something the girl said about the order
of events. “Were Desi and Milo in the kitchen at the same
time?”

Inez did not answer right away.
She fixed her gaze on the crackling fire. “No, I think not. But
Desi did not go back to her bed either. I did not hear her bed
creak. That’s how I knew she was lying when she said Velazquez went
to her room after visiting me. She was not there and he never went
to her room. Never! He preferred men and she was black and hairy
like an ape. She disgusted him. She worked as a freak in a circus
when she ran away from the orphanage. She was truly savage when she
first came to the Hotel Louve begging for work. I think she went to
the dairy room for some butter while Milo was in the kitchen. She
likes to eat the butter straight from the knife. Milo ran back to
his bed like he saw a ghost. I saw him run past my door just before
Velazquez came back. Velazquez came to my room to talk but I
shouted at him to go away. That’s all I remember.”

“You don’t remember hearing
Desi go back to bed?”

“No, I was asleep by then. Desi
likes to eat as much as Velazquez likes to drink.”

“What do you think happened to
your mistress?”

“I think the old man and his
wife killed her.”

“Why would they do that?”

Inez had clearly given the
question some thought. She did not hesitate. “I think they want to
keep the little girl for themselves. I think they know where the
Cathar
tresor
is hidden. I think they want to keep that for
themselves too.”

“Who do you think killed
Milo?”

“I think it was the old man. I
think Milo saw something he should not see.”

“Did you know he carried a
knife?”

“Yes, that is why he wore two
pairs of socks. Everyone knew that.”

“What about Herr von Gunn? Who
do you think killed him?”

Inez glanced fearfully at the
door. “I think he was opening the gate for the bandits when the
gate fell on him. I think we will all be murdered in our beds
tonight. I will pray to God to grant me mercy, to make my end swift
and painless.” She made the sign of the cross.

The Countess did not contradict
Inez but it was not possible for the portcullis to fall
accidentally. It took considerable strength to turn the shaft.

“Before you go back to the
kitchen I want you to go to the south tower and bring me the black
leather costume. My maid will show you where to find it. She is
keeping watch over the girl. You can sleep in here tonight. I will
have need of a maidservant to help me with my toilette. Xenia will
remain in the tower all night. Do not tell anyone about the
costume. Make sure no one sees you.”

The Countess closed her eyes
and played with different scenarios in her head. Every time a fact
did not fit she had to start again. What gave her the most concern
was the death of von Gunn. Why kill him? The only thing that made
sense was that he had had a falling out with the other men. Perhaps
he had wanted to confess and they had silenced him.

Desi arrived to empty Dr
Watson’s bath. The Countess caught up to her as she was sluicing
the chute in the garderobe of the east wing.

“I want to speak to you. It
will not take long. Did you see anyone else creeping about during
the night your mistress disappeared? I know Velazquez was in the
great hall having a drink and Milo was cutting some bread. Did you
notice anyone else?”

Desi shook her frowzy head and,
disappointed, the Countess changed tack.

“You liked Velazquez – was he
sometimes cruel to you?”

She nodded and then nodded
harder.

“What about Milo? Did you like
him?”

She nodded again.

“Was he sometimes cruel?”

She shook her head and her
bottom lip appeared to quiver.

“And Inez – do you like
her?”

“Yes.”

“Is she sometimes cruel?”

“Yes.”

“Was your mistress sometimes
cruel?”

She shrugged her big broad
shoulders, though not carelessly the way some people do, it was
more as if to say this was the way of the world and she was
resigned to it.

“People can be cruel. Herr von
Gunn was cruel when he spoke to you.”

Desi shrugged again, the action
implied – such is life!

Wearily, the Countess made her
way to the great hall to find Dr Watson bedding down the fire. The
three men had retired to their rooms. The death of von Gunn had
affected them greatly. They didn’t know what to make of it and were
looking forward to packing up and turning their backs on
Chanteloup. Nothing had been decided about the girl. They would
probably turn their backs on her as well. Dr Watson, suppressing a
yawn, bid the Countess goodnight and left her sitting alone staring
blankly at the embers. Their sojourn at Chanteloup had the feel of
an allegorical dream, full of troubadours, jongleurs, a dark queen,
a fair princess, jealous vassals and guarded secrets - as strange
and surreal as the images on the tapestries depicting
le chanson
de geste
– the song of deeds. Tomorrow they would wake up and
it would be over. Perhaps they would find none of it was real.

The clock struck midnight as
the Countess sat bolt upright, vivified by an epopayaic revelation.
The rush of blood to her head left her feeling giddy. There was no
time to lose.

Fedir, who had taken it upon
himself to act as personal bodyguard while his mistress dozed in
the chair by the fire, was slumped out of sight on a bench tucked
into an unobtrusive alcove. She summoned him to her side and
informed him of her plan.

Next, she hurried to the west
wing. Moriarty’s door was bolted. She knocked softly, trying not to
wake anyone else. Nothing happened. She knocked again, slightly
harder. Slowly the door opened and she crossed the threshold into
the dark maw of his bedroom.

“Put that down,” she said,
using an index finger to push away the gun barrel pressed to her
temple.

He was poised behind the door
and obligingly lowered his weapon. “Is this a social call or are
all my dreams about to come true?”

“This is serious. Shut-up and
listen. There isn’t much time to explain. I think there’s going to
be an attempt on the life of the girl tonight. I’ve just dispatched
Fedir to the south tower to take his sister’s place. He’s armed and
hiding in the closet. I need you to provide back-up. Put on some
clothes.”

“You trust me?” There was
genuine surprise in his intonation.

“I have no other choice.”

“That’s not an answer – yes or
no?”

“Yes – is that what you need to
hear?”

He made an unsavoury grunt deep
in his throat as he fumbled around in the dark for his trousers and
began to tug them on. “It will suffice for now. How do you know
there will be an attempt on the girl’s life?”

She braced herself for the
usual glib retort. “Female intuition – I don’t have a better
explanation and before you mock -”

“I’m not about to mock
anything. What women call ‘female intuition’ men call ‘gut
instinct’. If more people paid attention to it they would save
themselves a lot of strife. Who do you think is going to attempt to
kill the girl?”

“I’m not going to say. I don’t
want to give you any preconceived ideas.”

He chuckled mirthlessly as he
located a smelly shirt and thrust his arms into the sleeves. “The
Foreign Office should put women in charge of military operations,”
he mused sardonically, mismatching buttons to button-holes. “I will
petition the Queen upon my return – presuming I live long enough to
ever get home: Attack that ridge and overpower the enemy but I’m
not going to tell you who we’re fighting or where the enemy is or
even how many of the buggers there might be – I don’t want to give
you any preconceived ideas!”

She was not in the mood for
drollery. “Are you dressed yet?”

“Almost – it would help if
there was some candlelight.”

“We cannot risk it.”

“Help me find my socks.”

“Here’s one.” She tossed it to
him where he was sitting on the end of the bed.

“You sound serious – and
worried.”

“I am – oh, here’s the other
sock.”

She had been standing with her
back to him, arms crossed, nervously tapping her foot on the old
oak boards as she kept an eye on the corridor to make sure she
hadn’t woken anyone else.

“Shoes,” he whispered.

“There are some leather boots
here by the door.”

“They’ll do. Pass them
across.”

“Are you done?”

“My other Webley is under the
pillow. I’ll just grab it in the event I need two guns.”

“Let’s hurry. We could be too
late already.”

“Hang on a minute.” He caught
her arm. “We?”

“I’m going with you. I’ll hide
behind the daybed.”

“In case you’re unable to
comprehend Irish humour, I was kidding about women on campaign. I
prefer to operate solo. I’m making an exception in the case of your
manservant because you leave me no choice and I’m still in the dark
about who or what or how many buggers I’m expected to
overpower.”

She broke free. “You’re wasting
time. Let’s go.”

He was forced to follow in her
wake though some throaty rumbling made it clear he wasn’t too happy
about it. There was even a fleeting moment when they crossed the
great hall whereby he wondered if he was being set-up. A cold
draught of air from the kitchen stairs reminded him von Gunn was
dead. Was he next in line for an appointment with the Grim
Reaper?

They were about to lift the
tapestry and step onto the spiral stairs when he swung her into his
arms and delivered a brutal kiss that was even more audacious than
the one that left him stinging. But this time she kissed him back.
It put fire in his belly and poured cold water on his doubts and
fears at the same time. That’s why women made such damned good
assassins. Men could never see the bullet coming.

“Not now,” she said when he
came up for air.

“When?”

“Never!”

He laughed softly into the side
of her neck. “You’ve got a lot to learn about granting a man going
off to war his dying wish.”

“Hush!” She put her finger to
her lips while she lifted back the tapestry and listened for the
slightest noise. When she was satisfied there was no one on the
stairs she signalled for him to follow her up to the south tower
where a single candle flickered in a silver holder on the bedside
table, creating surreal shadows on the exquisite fabliaux of
Le
Roman de la Rose
.

Fedir was in position,
que
vivre
. He appeared and disappeared in the blink of an eye. The
girl was sleeping in the big bed, her vibrant yellow hair forming a
throbbing sinuous halo on the pillow. The Countess crouched behind
the daybed and Moriarty slipped behind the door.

Experience had taught him that
nerves taut with tension were a good thing. His body was preparing
itself for imminent attack. The only problem was he didn’t know
from what direction the attack might come. There was Fedir hiding
in the closet, the Countess behind the day bed, and the door that
gave entry to the chamber ready to admit who, what, how many? He
needed to keep an eye out for the sleeping girl too. He could not
overlook her in the hope she would take care of herself in the
event of a gun battle. His blood was pumping, his limbs were
pumped.

The trio remained in hiding for
an unknown length of time. The candle burnt down to a fat stump and
began to splutter. The wick poked out of a tiny pool of hot wax
that ran down the side of the candlestick and dripped on the
bedside table, leaving a soft clumpy mass. Pretty soon they would
be left in the dark. Moriarty began to wonder if he was on a fool’s
errand and even the Countess began to doubt herself when at last
they were alerted to a footfall on the stone stairs. Someone was
coming.

Moriarty thought there might be
just the one assailant from the sounds of it, but his instincts
warned him not to relax his guard. The moment a man underestimated
his enemy he was done for. The first might be a scout. The others
might be hanging back. His gun was cocked, his breath was drawn.
Someone was standing in the doorway.

Come on, come on, urged the
Irishman, as a dark shadow crept stealthily forward.

Moriarty was tossing up whether
to make a bold move or hold back when the decision was wrenched
from him. A knife whistled through the darksome air and found its
mark. The girl in the bed didn’t stand a chance, she didn’t even
cry out. There was just a sickening crunch as the knife lodged in
the small golden head. It sounded like the cracking of a walnut. He
slammed the door to stop the killer fleeing. The backdraft blew out
what was left of the flickering wick. The killer lashed out and
lurched toward the closet. Moriarty copped a fist to his head and
slammed back against the wall, winded. Fedir stepped forward to
block the path of the killer and was knocked to the ground with a
well-placed fist to the face. It knocked him out cold. The killer
must have been familiar with the enfilade of dressing rooms.
Moriarty picked himself up and gave chase. The killer ran straight
for the garderobe and slammed the door. The bolt rammed home.
Moriarty drew the bolt this side and there was no escape. The
killer was trapped!

In the meantime, the Countess
had lighted several fresh candles and was attempting to rouse her
manservant. Moriarty retraced his steps, passing both of them, to
check on the girl though he didn’t hold out much hope that he would
find her alive. He cursed himself for his momentary inaction as he
pulled back the feathered quilt and braced for the gruesome sight.
But the sight that confronted him knocked for six. It was the doll!
The porcelain head had been cracked by a sharp blade. The girl was
nowhere to be seen. He shook himself, picked up the doll and sat
down on the side of the bed as he tried to gather his senses.
Everything had happened so quickly he hardly had time to get his
head around it.