The Curse of the Singing Wolf (4 page)

“You can see the two vassals
sitting
vis-à-vis
opposite their lady like doting minions –
men are such fools for love!” tittered the old aristocrat happily,
as the black and gold barouche floated past and they shuffled
closer to the front of the queue. “There goes Prince Orczy in the
landau with the two Mayflowers,” said the old Princess, who didn’t
seem to miss a trick despite her rheumy eyes and advancing age.
“They must be heading to the casino too for they are going the same
way. Oh, here we are – a fiacre at last!”

The Bellevue Casino had a
rather underwhelming façade. It had borrowed something from every
style since chateau construction commenced as if it couldn’t quite
make up its mind what it wanted to be: Louis Quatorze, Napoleon
111, et al. It had a mansard roof, dormers, turrets, windows that
were round, square, rectangular and French door.

Prince Orczy was cutting a
flaxen-haired dash at the baccarat table. Miss Mayflower and Mama
Mayflower were poised awkwardly, one at each shoulder, trying
desperately to look as if they were enjoying themselves but even
flutes of expensive French bubbly failed to lift their sagging
chins. When the Prince continued to lose at a furious pace and the
pretence all got too much for the drooping dispositions of the
American Puritans they made a beeline for the exit. A princely
title was a coveted trophy across the Atlantic but not if it came
tied to the coat tails of a profligate gambler. Fortunes larger
than theirs had been squandered on matrimonial enterprises and
lessons had been learned.

“Miss Mayflower is not so dull
after all,” commented the Countess with a cynical smile.

“Hopefully, she and mama will
book a passage on the first steamer ship bound for New York,”
returned the Princess with a chuckle. “While they still have the
means to pay for two tickets in first class and not in
steerage.”

“Prince Orczy must be losing
his charm as well as his luck.”

“Or else he has set his sights
on a new demoiselle.”

The Countess dismissed the
sardonic suggestion with a good-humoured laugh. “A man would have
to be exceptional for me to ever consider sacrificing my
independence.”

“Bravo, Varvaruchka, it warms
an old woman’s heart to know the blood of Scythian matriarchs still
flows in Slavic veins. Remind yourself of this conversation when
you meet this exception. After you lose your head and he gains
control of your fortune it will be too late. Now, let us make our
way to the wheel of misfortune?”

They passed through various
gilded salons where the
crème de la crème
of Europe and
America came to squander their inheritances; a spin here, a flutter
there, a few hours of idle amusement, repeat ad infinitum. They
entered an octagonal chamber frescoed with scenes from the Sistine
chapel - the painted ceiling depicting God reaching out his hand as
if to grasp the last shekel from an unwise Adam.

The Singing Wolf was sitting
regally at the roulette table. Either side of her, like loyal
vassals, stood Baron Reichenbach and Herr von Gunn. She did not
appear to acknowledge either man, nor did she speak to the
croupier, nor to anyone around her, but remained as unapproachable
as a mythic Saracen queen seated on her throne, placing her bets,
always on the same number – black thirteen. There were women who
were pretty, women who were beautiful and women who were stunning –
the Singing Wolf was the latter, everything about her denoted style
and substance, wealth and power, and that indefinable factor –
mystique.

The Countess had observed for
herself early in life that a petite blonde did not need to be
exceptional to be considered the highest of her sex, whereas a
brunette needed to be exceptional to be considered at all. The
Countess was a brunette. She was what might be deemed: attractive.
The chief attribute of her attractiveness was her confidence. And
despite what many a cynic might say, it was not something money
could buy. It stemmed from innate self-belief, and though it
included a certain amount of vanity, it had nothing to do with
conceit, which was aligned to arrogance and superiority devoid of
reason, like a goddess without purpose.

The Princess Roskovsky made a
great show of winning, clapping her hands and expostulating with
childish glee, and just as great a show of losing, castigating the
little wheel as if it had a mind of its own but lacked a Russian
soul. The Singing Wolf was the opposite. Whether she won or lost,
it was of no consequence. She hardly batted an eyelash whether
black thirteen came up or not. The two minions standing either side
kept her supplied with betting chips which she placed mechanically
and unemotionally after each spin of the wheel.

After about an hour of time had
passed and the Princess had suffered a run of bad luck and the long
losing streak was about to claim her last chip, she suddenly cried
out excitedly, clapped her hands exuberantly, and grabbed the stack
of chips the croupier piled on top of black thirteen. A frisson of
fear ran around the table and breaths were drawn.

“I believe they are mine,” said
the Singing Wolf, addressing the old aristocrat.

“Oh, no,” countered the other.
“I believe you are mistaken. These chips are mine.”

“Black thirteen is
my
number.”

“You failed to place your bet
in time. The croupier called: No more bets. He pushed your chip
back to you.”

“I believe it was
your
chip that failed to be placed in time.”

The Princess turned to her
companion for confirmation. “Countess Varvara, can you tell this
lady she is mistaken. The winning chip was mine.”

The Countess glanced from one
implacable female face to the other and shook her head. “To be
honest, I was not watching. Prince Orczy was having a glass of
champagne thrown in his face by a lady in red and it momentarily
claimed my attention.”

The Singing Wolf looked at the
two minions either side of her for positive confirmation in her own
favour but they cited the same lapse in concentration. Prince Orczy
being splashed with champagne was a sight not to be missed.

The manager of the casino was
summoned. He took one look at the Singing Wolf, trembled a little,
mopped his forehead with his handkerchief, and instructed the
hapless croupier to pay both women equal winnings.

The Singing Wolf looked down
her raptor’s nose at the Princess Roskovsky. “You may keep both,”
she said haughtily before sweeping out of the glittering salon,
disdaining the company of her two disappointing male attendants
with a cursive wave of a manicured hand. The manager trailed in her
regal wake, muttering grovelling apologies. When they reached the
foyer he called for her fur cloak and personally draped acres of
mink over her shoulders, signalling for the doorman to summon the
black and gold barouche without delay.

Soggy and humiliated, Prince
Orczy begged to be allowed to accompany the Singing Wolf back to
the Hotel Louve and deferentially kissed her hand when she
relented.

The little drama left the
Princess Roskovsky fatigued. She immediately announced that she too
would be returning to her hotel.

The Countess was accompanying
the Princess to the cloakroom when the old lady turned to her and
took hold of both her hands.

“The night is young and
something tells me you have certain fish to fry, Countess Varvara.
It has been an interesting evening. The best I have had in years.
No doubt we will cross paths again soon now that you have finally
returned from the antipodes. A bientôt, Varvaruchka.”

Smiling, the Countess bestowed
a trio of kisses on her late aunt’s wily compatriot and prepared to
return to the roulette table when Baron Reichenbach and Herr von
Gunn insinuated themselves into her path, introduced themselves,
and invited her to join them at a private table set in a romantic
candlelit booth where a bottle of French champagne chilled in a
silver ice bucket and three crystal flutes stood ready. They
appeared to know her name already.

“Prince Orczy pointed you out,”
explained the Baron when she asked how they knew it. “It was an
amusing stand-off just now,
n’est-ce pas
?” he continued
cheerfully, filling three crystal flutes and handing the first to
her.

“Quite,” said the Countess.

“I did not think either woman
would back down,” added Herr von Gunn convivially. “Shall we drink
a toast to the Princess Roskovsky and the Singing Wolf.”

The raising of glasses cemented
the start of their relationship.

“Does the Singing Wolf have a
name?” enquired the Countess.

“She goes by many names,”
replied the Baron. “Iolaire Dubh is my favourite.”

“Louve D’Oc is mine,” added von
Gunn.

“Black eagle. She-wolf of Oc.
They sound fantastical and invented.”

The Prussian laughed throatily.
“That’s why they suit her so well!”

“You are staying at the Hotel
Louve with a travelling companion?” stated the German, deftly
changing the subject as he topped up her glass.

“Did you get that information
from Prince Orczy too?”

“
Evidement, la comtesse
- I take it that your travelling companion did not choose to join
you tonight?”

“Dr John Watson, no, he is not
fond of the opera.” She watched carefully for a reaction from the
Baron but he did not betray himself. What’s in a name? There were
possibly hundreds of Reichenbachs in the world with no connection
to the place where Sherlock rumbled to his so-called death.

The German asked how she came
to choose the small hotel on the rock and while she explained about
the mix-up with rooms at the Hotel du Palais she got the distinct
impression her listeners seemed not only bemused but dismayed that
she ended up at the Hotel Louve.

The two men came once a year to
Biarritz, always in the month of November, and always stayed at the
Hotel Louve. Its location away from the main boulevards suited
them. Neither man was currently married. The Prussian had been
widowed seven years now. The German had been twice married and
twice divorced. When the champagne had been drunk they clambered
into the black and gold barouche which the Singing Wolf had
dispatched for their return journey. It was a generous gesture and
the sort of touch that made staying at a small hotel
worthwhile.

They beat the storm by mere
minutes. No sooner had they reached their rooms than the heavens
opened up. Rain flooded the smart boulevards and sent the last of
the pleasure seekers scurrying for cover.

Xenia and Fedir were waiting up
for their mistress. They had rooms in the west wing and took turns
keeping an eye out for the return of the barouche from the time it
had been dispatched to the casino to fetch the last of the hotel’s
guests.

Just after the stroke of
midnight the Countess returned to startling news. Fedir stood guard
in the corridor while Xenia lowered her voice and informed her
mistress that a fourth man had checked into the hotel during her
absence. He apparently always came to Biarritz at this time of year
and always took the same room on the second floor. It was the room
just below that of the Countess. His name was Colonel James
Isambard Moriarty.

The Countess tossed and turned,
snatching sleep for short periods. She would close her eyes, drift
off then find herself wide awake an hour later, staring at the
painted ceiling. She put her sleeplessness down to the electrical
storm, the blinding light from
le phare
, and the roar of the
Atlantic Ocean as it crashed onto the rock, but in truth she was
worried. The name Moriarty coming on top of Reichenbach was not
something she could dismiss and yet there could be no connection.
She and Dr Watson had checked into the Hotel Louve on the spur of
the moment, almost on a whim, by pure chance. No one could have
foreseen their transfer from the Hotel du Palais in advance. There
were hundreds of hotels they could have gone to. And even if Dr
Watson’s room mix-up was contrived, what followed was not
predictable. They had come across the Hotel Louve by happenstance
after becoming lost. No one had proposed it to them. There had been
no power of suggestion, no hint had been dropped, no invisible hand
had guided them this way and yet...

And yet she could not help
recalling the words of the Princess Roskovsky - the hotel had a
certain reputation; hardly any women stayed there; the men who
checked in were
radical
.

What did that mean? Radical?
The word haunted her sleep and plagued her waking hours. It
followed her in the dark as she moved restlessly to the window to
watch the storm sweep across the sky, as she tossed a log on the
fire where the dying embers glowed faintly red, as she paced the
elegant bedchamber and fretted about the mental health of her
travelling companion. What would be his reaction when he heard the
name Reichenbach? What would be his over-reaction when he heard the
name Moriarty? Would he insist on catching the first ferry back to
England? Would he attempt to avenge his old friend?

Morning broke the back of the
storm and the day dawned at peace with itself. The same could not
be said of the Countess. Lack of sleep had her nerves stretched on
tenterhooks, and though she was no coward, she could not bear the
thought of an ugly scene so early in the day. She requested
breakfast in bed and pondered the likelihood of a violent
confrontation in the dining room. But neither Xenia nor Fedir
brought tidings of anything untoward.

“Where is Dr Watson?” she
finally asked after she’d fortified herself with a cup of tea.

Fedir informed her that Dr
Watson had slept soundly and breakfasted early and was taking a
walk to
le phare
. Xenia added that she heard him telling the
concierge he had always been fascinated by lighthouses and would
not return until midday and to reserve a table for lunch.