The Curse Of The Diogenes Club

by Anna Lord

  “Dammit!” cussed Mr Blague, squinting through the tracery of bare winter branches. “They’ve started the fireworks early.”

  Neither Nash nor Moriarty could afford to get distracted; nerves stretched to breaking, bodies poised on a knife-edge, eyes fixed on the target, neither dared to blink.

  The next explosion came a few heartbeats later and in that instant both Nash and Moriarty knew they weren’t listening to fireworks.

  “A bomb!” shouted Nash, dropping his weapon and swivelling round to Damery. “Throw me my gun!”

  Damery reacted spontaneously. He tossed the two young men their weapons and watched them sprint for the pavilion just as a third bomb went off. General de Merville suddenly seemed to rouse himself, perhaps only just realising his beloved daughter was still inside the building. He raced after them, putting his old war pegs through their paces as fast as they would go. Damery caught up to his friend, but they had no hope of catching up to the younger pair. Prince Sergei stayed to collect his valuable pistols and Mr Blague stayed with him. There was no telling if the third bomb was the last. The lake was the best place to be.

  Sections of the pavilion were on fire. Debris and shards of glass were everywhere. Men were shouting and ladies were screaming; some of the guests were staggering, some limping, and others needed to be carried; blood was streaming everywhere. The scene was one of utter chaos.

  Nevertheless, from a distance - say the distance from the pavilion to the lake - it was clear the damage was not as devastating as it could have been. Whoever set the bombs had messed up badly. The first two bombs blew the lids off the domes that stood at either end; the ones that housed the divans and hookahs. The third bomb went off in the foyer. The huge ballroom with the airy triptych of domes where the majority of the guests, cloaked and mantled, were probably gathering prior to stepping out to the lawn facing the river for the best view of the fireworks had been miraculously spared.

  Moriarty shirt-fronted Nash as they hurtled up the grassy knoll; his breath came in desperate heaves. “No playing the fucking hero! Duty comes first!”

  “Are you saying we’re on the same side?”

  “We’re never going to be on the same side, Nash, and not because I’m Irish and you’re stupid, but because she can only ever choose one of us.”

  “Are you denying your Irish friends had anything to do with those bombs?”

  “Did you see those domes blow sky-high? I was planning to be inside one of them till midnight. If my friends had anything to do with it then I wouldn’t need any enemies.”

  There was another series of violent explosions, a burst of panic, and deafening screams. It took a moment to realize that this time it was the actual fireworks. They had been set up on a barge on the river and the men in charge had no idea the three bombs weren’t part of the entertainment. The sky rained stars and diamonds and the mad midnight scene became wildly surreal because of what had already taken place. Some people laughed and others cried. Some, suffering shock, were too traumatised to care.

  With no thought for their own safety, Nash and Moriarty, rushed inside the pavilion and began clearing away heavy timbers, mostly from the shattered staircase, and chunks of ceiling plaster that blocked the exit. Captain Thompson, having raced across from the stable block, joined them. He began directing his men to assist the injured, the elderly, and those in shock.

  It was a credit to the Prince of Wales that, suffering only minor abrasions, he refused to be whisked away to safety. His natural warmth and bonhomie went a long way to calming nerves and restoring order.

  The Princess of Wales, who had been in the cloak room, and suffered only a few scratches, likewise refused to leave without her husband. She organized a line of older ladies to make bandages out of torn petticoats, and a younger group to bandage wounds and staunch bleeding. Miss de Merville was among this second group, her indomitable spirit acting as an example to others who might have been squeamish at the sight of so much blood.

  Mrs Klein, looking fiercely magnificent in her Valkyrie costume, rallied any man who might otherwise have given into fear. Before long she had a conga line of men relaying buckets of water from the lake up to the pavilion to help put out spot fires.

  Fireworks continued to boom and blaze luridly across the cold black sky and most people didn’t know whether the glorious unreality of it all was a dream or a nightmare.

  Nash and Moriarty began the search for the Countess. She wasn’t among the injured on the lawn. The serious casualties had been taken to the guardroom. The dead had been taken to the stable block. Moriarty checked the former; Nash the latter. Fearing the worst, they met up ten minutes later at the front of the pavilion.

  Nash’s voice crackled with indignation. “She’s not in the stable. The tack room is empty – was the pirate one of your so-called friends?”

  Moriarty summoned all his willpower and ignored the accusation; his tone was tense and strained and hanging by a thread. “She’s not in the guardroom either and I swear I have no idea who that pirate was. I saw him earlier and tried to follow him but he gave me the slip. Do you think he’s our bomb man?”

  With his mind now splintering off in a hundred different directions like those fireworks, Major Nash was about to reply when he remembered he hadn’t seen Mycroft Holmes all night and that the first bomb had taken off the roof of a dome near to where he was holed up. “I have to check something,” he said urgently, berating himself for getting sucked into a duel with Jim when he had more important things to do. “Find that fucking pirate!”

  Major Nash ran back inside the pavilion, crossed the foyer, hurdled chunks of plaster and fragments of wood, crunched broken glass in the ballroom, and raced straight up the staircase at the far end of the dance floor.

  Moriarty wondered where to start looking. If the pirate was the bomb man he would be long gone by now unless he was setting off a second round of bombs inside the pavilion. He raced back inside in time to see the major mounting the stairs like a man on a mission and decided to follow.

  Major Nash reached the top of the stairs and disappeared behind a red velvet curtain. Moriarty presumed the curtain hid a broom cupboard. He hadn’t seen anyone going that way all night. Behind the curtain was a narrow, dimly lit passage. At the end of the passage was a door that appeared to be locked from the inside.

  Moriarty watched the major draw his weapon, shoot the lock off and use his boot to kick the door in. The action had been bold and deft. Moriarty had clearly underestimated his rival; all those apocryphal stories about Khartoum and the Suez came back to him. Nash was no paper-shuffler in the War Office.

  What the major expected to find inside the room intrigued Moriarty no end. He crept down the passage, pressed himself against the wall in order to listen, and got the shock of his life when he heard the voice of the Countess.

  5

  The Holmes Boys

  “Major Nash!” she gasped when he burst into the room.

  Ready to blow someone’s head off, the major didn’t really know what to expect when he kicked the door in – so many different and dangerous scenarios had flitted through his head as he bolted up the stairs - but the sight that greeted him left him feeling punch-drunk.

  Mycroft Holmes was seated in a wing chair, a cigar in one hand and a glass of port in the other, acting as if nothing untoward had happened, yet shards of glass littered the floor. Discounting the broken windows and the smashed door, the room was otherwise intact.

  Seated opposite him in a matching wing chair was Dr Watson wearing a Musketeer outfit; the same one that had adorned Moriarty at the start of the ball. The doctor appeared a little groggy, most likely from the after-effects of the sedative.

  Standing behind Dr Watson’s chair was the Countess. Her kokoshnik was in place but her hair was mussed and her snow-white gown was blood splattered, but she was in one piece. Thank heaven! She was holding a muff pistol which was aimed straight at his heart.

  But it was the sight of the fourth pe
rson in the room that disturbed him the greatest. It was the nefarious pirate with the queer weapons. With both firearms trained his way, the man was a frightening sight to behold.

  “Does your ADC always enter a room with such bravado? Really, Mycroft, you should teach him to knock?”

  Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Come in Nash. Ignore my brother. What took you so long? I was expecting you half an hour ago.”

  Major Nash was still gathering his wits about him and it was impossible to tear his eyes away from the bizarre-looking pirate, though the man had thankfully lowered the twin flintlock firearms. So that was the famous Mr Sherlock Holmes in one of his masterful disguises. The major would have laughed but he still wasn’t sure what was going on.

  “How did you get away from the tack room?” he asked straight up.

  “Child’s play!” said the younger Mr Holmes. “Once the first bomb went off and the guards ran to see what was happening I was able to loosen the bonds they used to secure me to a post. They don’t teach men to tie proper knots any more. And a hook is not a hand but a very handy tool.” He demonstrated how the hook resting on the table simply sat inside his sleeve. “It was easy to slip off the hook and loosen the knots. Child’s play, as I said!”

  “May I look at your firearms?”

  “No, you may not. You might hurt yourself. They have been modified to fire darts. Some are quite lethal. Curare. Others will simply put you to sleep for a while.”

  “Stop showing off, Sherlock,” reprimanded Mycroft. “I want to hear what Nash has to say. Has the bomb man been apprehended?”

  “No, sir, I suspected the other Mr Holmes.”

  Sherlock laughed richly before switching to serious. “What was happening in the Copper Beech wood? As I was being escorted to the stable I saw you and several others heading that way. I believe it was Damery and Moriarty. Who else was there?”

  “General de Merville, Prince Sergei and Mr Blague.”

  “What were the six of you doing by the lake?” pursued Mycroft tetchily.

  “Having a duel, sir.”

  “A duel!” laughed Sherlock, clearly enjoying himself. “This is turning into a night to remember! Last Night Forever, indeed! And who were the duellists, Major Nash?”

  Major Nash winced. “Colonel Moriarty and myself.”

  A tremolando in the Countess’s normally confident tone betrayed how much she cared for the Irishman. “Since you are here and in one piece, Major Nash, are we to assume that Colonel Moriarty has been fatally wounded?”

  “No, the first bomb went off just as we were preparing to fire. The colonel is currently searching for the pirate.” He decided to change the subject lest his emotions betray him. “How are you feeling, Dr Watson?”

  “Recovering slowly.”

  “Can you recall what caused you to tumble down the stairs?”

  “Yes, I believe someone deliberately tripped me. I was searching for you, Major Nash. I thought the pirate looked fishy and I noticed Colonel Moriarty rushing about as if he was up to no good. I wanted to report them to you at once.”

  “You didn’t see who tripped you?”

  Dr Watson shook his head glumly. “I thought I recognized a face but the vision is hazy. It may come back to me as the sedative wears off. I believe I have you to thank for the medical attention and care I received whilst recovering.”

  Nash grimaced at the undue praise. He looked squarely at Mycroft. “I shirked my duty tonight, sir. I ignored my orders. I abandoned my post. All I can say in my defence is that at least the Prince of Wales is uninjured and the casualties appear to be at a minimum.”

  Sherlock scratched an itch behind the piratical eye-patch before replacing it. “Of course the Prince of Wales is uninjured and the casualties minimal. The intended target was my brother.”

  Shock was still coursing through everyone’s veins and now here came a fresh wave. All eyes turned to Sherlock.

  “Explain yourself,” said Mycroft sternly.

  “It is elementary. The first bomb in the dome at the far end of the pavilion was intended to create a spectacle. Nothing more. The second bomb at the opposite end likewise. They were intended to make sure everyone ran for their lives out of the building as fast as they could go through the dozens of French doors leading from the ballroom and the banqueting rooms.

  The bomb in the foyer was a little more serious but the bomb went off under the stairs. It demolished the staircase but the timbers actually served to smother what could have been far worse destruction. The solid marble columns that underpin the dome room easily withstood the blast. Ceiling plaster caved in and the studio being used by the photographer was mildly destroyed by the upward force of the blast but the photographer was fortunately not in his studio.

  Most of the injuries tonight are due to fragments of broken glass; an unavoidable hazard of bombs. The third bomb was the serious one and yet few people were killed. The only people killed outright were those on the stairs; an unavoidable consequence of bad timing. Had my brother chosen to occupy the larger sitting room above the foyer which he chose to make available to the photographer at the last minute because of its proximity to the stairs he would now be plastered to the top of a Mughal dome. The last minute decision to take the smaller sitting room, the room we currently occupy, saved his life.

  Now, what sort of bomb man plants three bombs at a royal ball-cum-banquet and omits the ballrooms and the banqueting rooms? And why place the third bomb under the stairs where it will do the least damage? Either he is the clumsiest and stupidest bomb man in existence or the intended target was my brother and the third bomb, intended to destroy the studio, was moved at the last minute.

  I believe this to be the case because I recall seeing the folding Kodak camera sitting on the hall table that centred the foyer where a large urn was filled with Christmas lilies. I think it probable that someone inadvertently picked up that camera and moved it to the cupboard under the stairs just prior to the fireworks. It may have been the studio photographer who was on his way to the veranda and decided to do his fellow photographer a favour – saving the camera from being tampered with, damaged, or even stolen.

  We may never know who moved that camera but if it had remained on the table I feel certain it would have blown a massive hole in the ceiling and destroyed the studio above - the room my brother was intending to occupy.”

  The Countess replaced her muff pistol in a hidden pocket of her gown. “I recall seeing the Kodak camera on the table as I was preparing to collect my cloak prior to the fireworks, but are you saying the bomb man wanted to injure the fewest number of the guests possible?”

  “Yes, and what does that tell you?”

  She didn’t need to think for long. “The bomb man was the photographer, but the man behind the bomb man was not a saboteur, not a foreign agent, no an anti-monarchist, not a Fenian. He was probably a guest.”

  Sherlock smiled proudly at her reasoning as he moved to the door. “Excellent deduction, my dear.” He raised his voice several decibels. “You may come in now Colonel Moriarty. Please feel free to join us.”

  The colonel entered looking as stunned as the others, and not a little sheepish. How the hell Mr Sherlock Holmes knew he was in the corridor was one of those mysteries that were never likely to be explained.

  “No need for the gun,” said Sherlock pleasantly. “You are among friends.”

  Reluctantly, Colonel Moriarty rehoused his weapon, daring Major Nash to do likewise with a fiercely challenging look. With equal reluctance, the latter followed suit.

  Irish eyes scanned the room, sizing things up – there was the brother of Mr Sherlock Holmes, presiding in a wing chair. He was clearly the man whom Nash worked for, but it made no sense. Mycroft Holmes was the President of the Diogenes Club. He was highly respected, but he was no high government official. Oh, hang on! Bloody good cover for the Secret Service! No wonder the club was impossible to get into and membership restricted to one or two men per annum.

  Ther
e was Dr Watson looking battered and bruised. He wanted to apologise for stealing the doctor’s kilt but he couldn’t find the right words. He would make it up to him later.

  His eyes met the Countess and one look told him everything he needed to know. She was relieved he wasn’t dead. That meant she hadn’t betrayed him to Nash. But even if she had – it was the reason he was still breathing. If he had stayed in the dome room they would have been scraping him off the Mughal roof.

  There was Nash looking bitter and peeved that he hadn’t left him in the dome room to get blown to bits by that first bomb. Despite being on the same side they were never going to fully trust each other. He and Nash always had more in common than not – poverty, ambition, useless fathers, surviving on their wits, relying on merit to get promoted – but the Countess would always come between them now.

  And Mr Sherlock Holmes – something odd there. It wasn’t just the queer firearms. His left arm seemed gimpy, and the hook seemed to fit very neatly onto his leather-gloved hand, and he moved with a springy gait, and he hadn’t yet removed his eye patch despite the fancy dress party being over. Where had he been all these years? Tending bees in Sussex – pull the other one! That Reichenbach business happened back in 1891 and the year had just ticked over to 1900.

  “I believe you are acquainted with everyone here,” said Sherlock, “apart from my brother and myself.”

  “Get on with it, Sherlock!” reproved the elder sibling. “We don’t have time for long-winded introductions. This isn’t a social gathering.”

  Sherlock smiled to himself. It was like old times. Oh, and how he had missed being in the midst of a life and death adventure, and among such an interesting and disparate coterie, including his daughter, his best friend, his big brother, and two up-standing officers of her Majesty’s army.

  “Well, here we are at the beginning of the twentieth century. Not the most auspicious start to a new era but let’s see if we can improve on it. Let us put our heads together. Someone here tonight wished to blow my brother up. Now, I admit I have often entertained the same wish myself but family loyalty prevented me acting on it. Obviously no such sentiment prevented our bomb man. So what could be his motivation? All ideas will be considered.”