The Curse of the Singing Wolf (5 page)

“Is there anyone in the dining
room at present?”

“Yes,” replied Fedir. The gist
of his monologue was that four men were taking their breakfast.
They appeared to know each other well and seemed to be on very good
terms.

This news should have pleased
the Countess but it made her feel uneasy. What could the four men
have in common? What thread connected them? A penniless playboy
prince, a munitions manufacturer, a Prussian with military ties and
an Irish colonel seemed an odd assortment? It was the last man who
interested her the most. Probably because she had met the others
and thus her curiosity was settled. The three she had met had come
across as charming and intelligent, endowed with good humour and
good manners, and restraint, yes, the Prussian and the German had
handled the misunderstanding at the roulette table with admirable
aplomb. As for Prince Orczy, at least he had had the good sense to
leave the casino once the glass of champagne washed over him thus
avoiding a heated exchange with the unknown lady in red.

Her mind wandered. The men came
every year to the Hotel Louve, always at the same time – why? What
was the drawcard? Were they all fools for love? Was the Singing
Wolf the thread that drew them? Did she summon all four
specifically to watch them fawn and flatter, pay court, vie for her
favours?

She tried to recall what
Professor Moriarty looked like. There had been an unflattering
illustration in one of the chronicles penned by Dr Watson of a
wild-haired, rake-thin man with a cadaverous face and mad staring
eyes. The artist had captured perfectly the look of fanatical
determination one associates with a cold-blooded murderer. She knew
there was a younger brother. Could there also be a nephew? Or
possibly a son!

She completed her toilette and
tossed up whether to catch up to Dr Watson at the lighthouse or
take a turn around the courtyard garden. Lack of sleep decided for
her. And that’s how she found herself face to face with the fourth
guest.

He spotted her from his balcony
and acknowledged her with an inclination of his head. By the time
she had completed one circuit of the cherub fountain he was by her
side. He looked at her as if he knew her, as if he saw something in
her features that reminded him of someone else, and the uncanny
thing was that she felt as if she knew him too. They greeted each
other for the first time not as strangers but more like childhood
companions who have not seen each other for untold years, as if the
eons that separated them were but a blink in time, as if they both
just stepped out of the same page of the Irish Book of Conquests
and could pick up some ancient mystical connection at will.

His voice was imbued with a
soft Irish lilt, playful and ironic. There was nothing harsh or
discordant in the tone, nothing dangerous or menacing behind his
words. He had milky blue eyes, like translucent glass with a drop
of summer sky in them. His head was bald. Now, there are some women
who do not like bald men, but the Countess was not one of them. A
bald head reminded her of other appendages that stimulated feminine
imagination. He was not exactly handsome but what he lacked in
looks he made up in personal presence. And in men that counted for
more.

He introduced himself and she
pretended she hadn’t heard the name before. He played along, though
she got the impression he didn’t believe it for a moment. He did
not attempt to flirt with her – that’s probably why he felt like a
childhood friend. Friends understood each other. They did not play
emotional games. Their rapport was natural and comfortable and
devoid of artifice. Within a few minutes of meeting he had
discovered several crucial things: her name, the fact she had been
married for three years to an Australian, that fact she was
independently wealthy, that she had just recently returned to the
continent, that she was raised in Ukraine, the step-daughter of the
Count of Odessos, had travelled most of the world with her
step-aunt, Countess Zoya Volodymyrovna, and that she was fiercely
intelligent.

They sat on a garden bench out
of the wind, though the walled garden was fairly sheltered already.
She learned he was born the youngest of three brothers. The other
two were dead. He hailed from an impoverished Irish family whose
wealth was being restored after decades of destitute penury. He was
currently restoring his mother’s family seat, Ballyfolly Castle,
which had been nothing but a ruin for several generations. He made
her promise if she was ever in Ireland to make a visit. He was
fiercely proud.

“Isambard is an unusual choice
of name for an Irishman,” she observed.

“We are an unusual Irish
family,” he parried lightly. “All three brothers were christened
James. James Hieronymous Moriarty. James Vercengetorix Moriarty.
James Isambard Moriarty. Our pater believed it would force us to
toughen up.”

“And did it?”

“To be sure!” he laughed loud
and long. “We stood up to the bullies and my two siblings excelled
at their lessons, particularly in spelling. My eldest brother was a
mathematical genius, my second was a great musician and composer
able to harness the musical spheres, as for me, well, modesty
forbids me to sing my own praises. What sort of man would I be if I
boasted of my achievements upon our first meeting?”

She had been prepared to
dislike him intensely. His eldest brother had been her father’s
arch nemesis, responsible for hounding him to his death in
Switzerland. She had warned herself against finding anything good
in him. But the inescapable fact was he was surprisingly easy to
like. He came across as so honest and sincere she believed that if
she asked him point blank about the death of Sherlock he would
probably tell her exactly what had happened and why. But she bit
her tongue.

The Singing Wolf appeared
briefly on her balcony. She was once again wearing a black
peignoir, a diaphanous garment that conjured up a magical vision in
the pearly light of morning.

Prince Orczy affected a mock
salute in their direction as he hurried down the steps that led to
the gated pillars. His undue haste told them he was probably on his
way to the same baccarat table he had been forced to retire from
prematurely the previous evening.

More languidly, the other two
male guests emerged from the dining room and found a pocket of
sunshine on the slate-paved terrace where they sat down to enjoy a
leisurely cigarette.

“Shall we make one more circuit
of the garden before we join Baron Reichenbach and Herr von Gunn?”
suggested Colonel Moriarty, gallantly offering his arm.

They walked arm in arm without
speaking and were coming round the cherub fountain when palls of
black smoke began billowing from the little windows of the sous-sol
that provided ventilation and light to the basement of the
hotel.

“Stay here,” he said urgently,
releasing her arm and patting her hand reassuringly. “I fear there
may be a fire in the kitchens.”

And off he dashed.

The two men on the terrace had
not yet noticed the plumes of black smoke. They appeared to find
his impulsive sprint amusing. But when he called: “Fire! Fire!”
they understood the urgency, tossed their cigarettes into the
garden bed and followed hot on his heels.

The Countess did not heed his
warning to stay put but rushed straight upstairs to her bedroom
where Xenia had already started packing up her jewels, safeguarding
them in fact, for they had once stayed at a hotel where a fire had
broken out and in the ensuing panic several rooms had been
ransacked.

Even if the fire was genuine
there was always the possibility of it spreading beyond the
underground rooms. Xenia had the luggage standing by and all the
essentials within reach. Fedir had fetched the trunks and
portmanteaux out of the box room at the end of the hall and then
raced downstairs to offer assistance.

From her balcony window the
Countess could see Dr Watson in the distance, exploring the base of
the lighthouse with a handful of tourists. Someone pointed in the
direction of the hotel and everyone turned to look. Alerted to the
billowing funnel of black smoke, he began to hurry back across the
rocks toward the footbridge that joined
le phare
to the
mainland. It would take him at least twenty minutes to make his way
back.

The Countess instructed Xenia
to hold off any packing. A maritime fortress would be bound to have
thick stone walls and sturdy foundations. She doubted the fire
would spread beyond the domestic rooms, and certainly not rapidly.
She stepped back inside the bedroom and closed the French doors to
keep out the smell of smoke and any cinders that might blow in on
currents of air. Xenia remained in the bedchamber while the
Countess hurried downstairs to ascertain the extent of the fire and
to await the arrival of Dr Watson. He would have worked himself up
into a lather, and she wanted to allay any fears before he
panicked.

The concierge had deserted his
desk and the lobby boy was nowhere to be seen. She could hear loud
voices and banging sounds coming from the stairwell that led down
to the underground rooms. Smoke was creeping up the stairs and
lingering in the foyer but not at an alarming rate. She opened the
heavy front doors to allow the tendrils of smoke to vent, wedging
the double doors with a pair of carved Spanish chairs, before
remembering that oxygen would feed the flames below. Quickly she
closed them again. As she paced the patterned brickwork,
trepidation mounting despite what she’d just told herself about the
sturdiness of fortresses, the heavy front doors flew open. It was
Prince Orczy. He was red in the face from running.

“What’s happening?” he gasped,
panting heavily. “I had reached the boulevard and was about to
climb into a fiacre when the cabbie pointed out the black clouds
engulfing the hotel. He made some joke about the Apocalypse before
I realized it was smoke. I ran all the way back. Where’s the
fire?”

That question was answered by
the loud shouting and clatter of metal objects coming from the
floor below. He turned and raced downstairs without waiting for a
reply. At the same time, the Singing Wolf made an appearance. She
was now dressed in black satin from head to toe, a colour that made
most complexions appear sallow, but her olive skin, reminiscent of
the ancient race of Mediterranean pirates who had long ago settled
in this part of the world, could withstand the leeching effect. In
fact, it complimented the sultry features, highlighting the black
eyes and raven hair and the ruby red of her lips. She was
astonishingly calm.

“Good-morning, Countess
Volodymyrovna. The fire should be under control in a minute or two.
Let us remove ourselves into the sitting room and await the others.
We will open a fresh bottle of amontillado in anticipation.”

Her accented voice was warm and
husky, not a trace of anxiety was attached to a single, solitary,
sang-froid note. It was the first time the Singing Wolf had
addressed her.

No sooner had they opened that
bottle of amontillado, took a glass for themselves, and settled
into armchairs by the fireplace where a log fire crackled cheerily,
than the men tramped in with soot-blackened faces grimed with
sweat. They marched straight to the sideboard and helped themselves
to a drink, draining the first glass in one gulp to quench parched
throats before measuring a second and then a third.

“Well, the good news is the
fire has not spread beyond the kitchens,” declared Moriarty.

“Was anyone injured?” probed
the Countess.

“Not seriously,” replied the
Baron. “The chef got a spot of soot in his eye. It is looking
fearfully bloodshot and inflamed. He’s gone to have a rest in his
room. Inez is making him a saline wash and preparing some cold
compresses.”

“The lobby boy scalded his
hands when he placed them on a hot metal surface,” added the
German, refreshing his glass. “Desi fetched a bucket of cold water
for him to plunge his hands into. She is now smearing his hands
with butter. He will nurse some nasty blisters for a few days but
he is young, his hands will heal.”

“All in all, we were
frightfully fortunate,” commented Moriarty. “It could have been
beastly bad luck if the kitchen had been fitted with one of those
new-fangled gas ovens. Not a day goes by in London that one of
those things does not explode.”

“Yes, damned dangerous things,”
agreed the Baron, “it’s the same in Paris. The morning papers are
full of it. A family with six children in Montparnasse went to
their Maker just last week.”

“And Germany the same,”
concurred Herr von Gunn. “Worse than Greek fire! No flues in most
of the contraptions, gas builds up all night and then in the
morning the maid strikes a lucifer and bang! The whole kitchen goes
up like a burst of hygron pyr!”

“Fearfully lucky we managed to
contain the flames to one room of the kitchen,” commented Moriarty,
getting back on track. “That’s the good thing about these really
old places. The kitchens were compartmentalized according to tasks
– dairy room, salting room, meat room, bakery room, and so forth,
not like some modern kitchens with everything taking place in the
one room and just a larder or scullery off the side. But I’m afraid
there will be no suckling pig for dinner,” he finished on a lighter
note.

Felipe, the concierge entered,
his dark eyes were red-rimmed and streaming.

“What is it Felipe?” asked the
Singing Wolf.

“I wish to inform our guests
that morning tea was set out in the dining room just prior to the
fire breaking out. If the Countess’s maid could help serve the tea
and coffee…”

“
Bon idée
,” pronounced
the Singing Wolf, before addressing her concierge. “Some cold
vichysoisse and extra sandwiches,
si tu plais
. It will
suffice for an early lunch. The hotel is closed to new guests as of
now. I want a crew of workmen in as soon as possible. You will
personally oversee the repairs. Spare no expense. That is all.
Freshen yourself up then see to it at once.”