by Anna Lord
After a brief interval of silence Major Nash spoke up. “There’s the forthcoming vote on changing the constitution of the Diogenes Club.”
“Yes,” said Sherlock, impressed by the young man’s suggestion. “If the primus baro is suddenly eliminated the vote will have to be postponed until such time as a new primus baro can be sworn in. That could take months and by then several members may have changed their minds or the amendment to the constitution might have been quietly dropped. What else?”
“There’s the question of forming a regiment of Irish Guards,” offered Moriarty. “It is my understanding Queen Victoria is in favour of forming an Irish regiment but the idea is being opposed by several high-ranking military officers with great influence in court. Now, I do not know if Mr Mycroft Holmes has any influence in government,” he added with all honesty, “but if he did then his word might sway the argument one way or another.”
“Good, good,” muttered Sherlock. “Now we are getting somewhere. What else?”
“There’s the death of Princess Paraskovia,” suggested the Countess, bracing for a swift rebuke from Mycroft, but he did not even blink which meant he was in accord with airing all possibilities. “She was found dead in her bath this afternoon at Clarges Hotel.”
Sherlock was taken by surprise. “Is that true, Mycroft?”
“Yes, the death was made to look like suicide but it was murder. Please continue, Countess. You may as well tell these gentlemen the rest.”
“Everything?” she tested.
“Yes, everything,” he confirmed sombrely, pulling off his pearl earring and rubbing his inflamed ear. “There can be no secrets kept back if we are to discover whoever set those bombs. You can have this trinket back too. I shan’t be needing it again.”
After pocketing the earring she perched herself on the arm of Dr Watson’s wing chair and made herself comfortable. It suggested the confidential information she was about to impart would not be confined to just one sentence.
“The princess was found in her bath. The bath had not been run by her lady’s maid. She was wearing valuable jewels. It appeared as if she had consumed a goodly quantity of laudanum. A bottle measuring three to four fluid ounces was found at the side of the bath. However, as the bottle dropped from her dead hand it did not roll but merely landed and stayed put, giving rise to the impression it had been placed there after death.
The princess was recently estranged from her husband and had moved into Clarges Hotel. She had been living there for a week. There is word she had taken a lover. Four names have been mooted: Viscount Cazenove, General de Merville, Sir James Damery and the Prince of Wales.”
The number of raised eyebrows indicated the listeners suddenly comprehended the serious implications of the princess’s demise. No one interrupted her so she continued.
“Prince Sergei had already learned of the death of his wife before Scotland Yard had been notified. How he became aware of it so quickly is open to conjecture. He informed Mr Holmes this morning at Clarges that his wife was with child and that the child was not his as he and his wife had not shared conjugal relations for several years. It is possible the father of the unborn child is one of the men mentioned. Prince Sergei named the Prince of Wales as the father. He left it to Mr Holmes to handle the news as he saw fit.”
“Good grief!” exclaimed Dr Watson, unable to contain his shock.
“Is that it?” asked Sherlock.
“No,” she said. “There’s an interesting detail. In the bath with the dead body was a Matryoshka doll. It is also called a Russian nesting doll. They were designed for this year’s Paris Fair. None have yet gone on sale. A Matryoshka doll is a series of small wooden dolls, usually three, four or five, brightly painted, and scaled in size so that one doll fits neatly inside the other. This particular doll was made up of five separate pieces. The doll was found wedged under the legs of the princess. The fifth and smallest doll, no bigger than an acorn, was found wedged in her vulva.”
Dr Watson was speechless. The other four men all suddenly found something fascinating in the stitching of their shoes. Sherlock broke the embarrassed silence.
“Do you think she was using it as a dildo?”
“It’s possible,” replied the Countess thoughtfully, “though I can think of several items in the bedroom and bathroom which would have been more satisfying. I think it was a hint to whoever found the body that she was with child. It may have been placed there after death by the killer.”
“That suggests the killer was intimate with the princess,” observed Sherlock, flicking his eyes from his implacable Buddha-like brother, still rubbing his red and swollen lobe, back to the Countess. “It implicates both the mysterious lover as well as the estranged husband. Was the bed made or unmade?”
“Unmade.”
“And yet it was mid-afternoon.”
She nodded. “It was my impression two people had recently occupied the bed. Both duck-feather pillows had indentations which is not itself an indication that two people shared the bed, but both sides of the bed had the covers thrown back. Since a person can only ever get out of one side of the bed it is a good indication two people emerged from the bed.”
“Anything else?” prompted Sherlock, smiling proudly.
“I have saved the best for last. Make of it what you will. The princess’s hair was up-pinned to save it getting wet. It indicated she was preparing to take a bath. But recall that she was wearing a pearl and diamond choker and some valuable rings. Tucked into her up-pinned hair was a small handful of birch bark.”
Sherlock clapped gleefully. “Oh, excellent! Excellent!” he sang happily.
Everyone else, apart from Mycroft who had already had the theory of the birch peelings explained to him, looked baffled.
“Please explain,” invited Sherlock, who could see that the Countess understood the spiritual significance of the birch.
“Slavs believe the souls of the dead inhabit birch trees. I think that whoever placed the birch bark into the princess’s hair did so because they wanted her soul to be connected to a sacred place.”
“That means the murderer had an understanding of Slavic folklore,” said Dr Watson who had only just recovered from hearing the word dildo spoken out loud in mixed company.
“That cuts out General de Merville, Sir James Damery and the Prince of Wales,” reasoned Major Nash.
“And we can eliminate Freddy Cazenove,” added Colonel Moriarty dryly, “because he has been promoted to the Transvaal.”
“That leaves Prince Sergei,” concluded Sherlock, going along with the main theory for now. “But would the prince really kill his estranged wife because she was conducting an illicit affair? I believe everyone in Russia conducts illicit affairs. No, no, the simplest explanation is that she did commit suicide and she put the birch bark in her own hair as she pinned it, and ran her own bath and did not need rose petals and unguents because she knew she would not be going anywhere afterwards, and she wore her best jewels because, well, that’s what a vain rich woman would do.”
“She was not vain!” snapped Mycroft.
“It is my understanding all princesses are cut from the same vain cloth.”
“Ultracrepidarianism!”
Sherlock laughed dismissively, incensing his brother further.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about!” shouted the elder.
Sherlock ignored the insult. “I think it is clear she understood the repercussions of having a child out of wedlock and decided to end it all when her lover let her know he would not be acknowledging the baby.”
“You don’t even know if there was a lover!”
“Oh, there was a lover all right – he was in the bed when the prince showed up out of the blue, probably using his own key which he would have acquired at some earlier time either from the maid or Mr Fisk-Manders. The lover disappeared into a dressing room to pull his trousers on. He didn’t wait to listen to the heated exchange between prince and princess. He high-tail
ed it out of Clarges by the back door so as not to be discovered.”
Mycroft was flushed to the gills and frothing apoplectically. “Shut up! Why don’t you! Just shut up and go back to Sussex! You’re not fit for anything except those stupid bees! Get out! Get out everyone! Get out and leave me alone to think!”
6
Nash and Moriarty
Sherlock and Dr Watson took a hackney cab to number 221B Baker Street. Neither spoke for the duration of the journey. The doctor was now feeling gobsmacked as well as groggy. The vehemence of the tone had shocked him. He put the violent outburst down to the horror of knowing innocent lives had been lost. Mycroft had a lot on his conscience and yet none of it had been his fault.
Sherlock lapsed into one of his introspective silences.
Ne ultra crepidam judicaret…rubbish!
The Countess waved them off then went to locate her maid. Xenia was helping Miss de Merville tend to the wounded, though several doctors had arrived on the scene to see to the serious cases and all that was left were some minor cuts and scrapes.
As Sherlock had pointed out, most of the guests were uninjured.
In the meantime, the Prince and Princess of Wales had departed and all of the important guests had followed suit. The party to usher in the new century - Last Night Forever! - expected to last till dawn had ended prematurely. A few dazed stragglers remained.
The Countess, in the company of Major Nash and Colonel Moriarty, made a brief tour of the interior of the pavilion and it was as Sherlock had surmised: the two domes blown clear off, the foyer a wreck, the studio above the foyer mildly damaged, but the remainder of the building largely intact. Someone wanted Mycroft dead but they wanted injuries kept to a minimum. The third bomb had been removed to the cupboard under the stairs, most likely by the studio photographer who may have noticed the folding camera on the hall table and stored it away for safe keeping until such time as the fireworks finished.
Neither man got the kiss he was expecting but at least he was still alive. That had to count for something. They watched the snow-white troika melt into the winter darkness and, utterly exhausted, turned to go back up the grassy knoll. Palls of smoke hanging over the pavilion mingled with mist creeping up from the river. They needed to start questioning servants and soldiers about the three bombs. They needed to ascertain as quickly as possible, before memories were dulled, if anyone had seen anything unusual at any time during the night.
“I’m going to run this past you,” said Major Nash, stopping to light a cigarette and offering one to his Irish counterpart as he gazed up at the frosted stars that had lost their sparkle. “Tonight I got the distinct impression that the Countess is secretly married to Dr Watson. Her reaction to his stumble down the stairs seemed more than just concern for a friend. And when I took her to see the doctor in the guardroom she stroked his forehead and patted his hair in a way that suggested intimacy, if you know what I mean. And the way she perched herself on the arm of his chair suggested a closeness that is usually only shared by married couples. My sister sits on the arm of a chair occupied by her husband but she wouldn’t do it to the arm of a chair occupied by me and I am her brother, and certainly not to a chair occupied by a man she is not related to. Feel free to disagree.”
Colonel Moriarty took a few puffs on his cigarette while he turned Nash’s idea over in his head. Tobacco smoke filled his lungs and he realized he hadn’t had a cigarette since before the commencement of the ball when he fell in with Damery, de Merville, and the American cigar tycoon on the veranda. It had been a strange night from start to finish and here was another strange thing on top of it. It was the last thing he expected to be discussing with his rival.
“You could be right. They live in separate residences in London but that could be to put everyone off the scent. I believe he spends a lot of time at the Mayfair house and takes most of his meals there. They travel together most of the time anyway and away from London it could be a different arrangement altogether. But why the secrecy?”
“She hasn’t been widowed long, maybe less than twelve months, and if they married in haste they might not want anyone to know. A lot of people still frown on anything less than widow’s weeds for the full twelve months of mourning. And to marry before three years is still considered bad form in some circles. As for the place in Baker Street, it is a place of business as much as a home, so he retains it but he couldn’t expect her to live there.”
“Mmm, yes, it’s the place you associate with Sherlock Holmes the consulting detective so I suppose the doctor doesn’t want to mess things up there, but from what I gathered from something the brother said, Sherlock spends most of his time in Sussex.”
Nash nodded. “He’s got a place on the South Downs. Mycroft Holmes, Dr Watson and the Countess went there for Christmas but she stayed in a village house. It could be that she and the doctor are keeping their marriage a secret from Sherlock too so as not to rock the boat.”
This was news to Moriarty! “Are you saying she didn’t spend Christmas with you?”
Nash blew a plume of smoke into the frosty air and gave a cynical laugh. “Next time you call someone stupid – you should check the mirror. I was at Longchamps with my sister and her family. Her husband is a violin maker. They have five children ranging in age from four years to twelve years and all of them play the violin. Individual lessons from their pater go from breakfast till mid-afternoon and then in the evening there are recitals and performances for the enjoyment of family members. Do you know how boring that is? Needless to say, making a violin and having the talent to play one is not the same thing.”
Moriarty laughed heartily. “At least you had company. I had my Irish Setter for company and he found me boring.”
The two men laughed and it was almost like old times when they were at military college together pitting themselves against the snobbery of their wealthier cadres.
“So what do you think of my theory?” asked Nash, enjoying the warm smoke from his cigarette against the cold night air that nipped at his face. “It would explain why we cannot get past the first post and yet we have never had any trouble with anyone else.”
“Apart from Isadora Klein, you mean,” reminded Moriarty, smarting at the memory of the humiliation at the hands of the dark seductress. The only thing that consoled him was the knowledge that Nash had suffered the same fate.
“Yes, apart from that bitch.”
Now that Moriarty had given the matter of passing the first post, namely the failure of, despite all his best efforts, serious consideration he wondered if Nash wasn’t onto something but got it slightly wrong. “The Countess might be secretly married all right, but I thought there was something going on between her and your boss.”
“What! Mycroft Holmes! Absolutely not!”
“Why not? I know he’s got as much appeal as a fat slug but he wields power and influence, and with women that counts for more.”
Nash was shaking his head. “No, no, you’re way off the mark.”
“Name all the women you know who would lend a valuable pearl earring to a man who is a mere acquaintance.”
“She’s probably got heaps to spare.”
“And think how he just handed it back to her as if the jewel was a mere bagatelle. What did he call it? Trinket?”
“He had a lot on his mind.”
“And when she perched herself on the arm of the doctor’s chair she was looking directly at Mycroft. There was a fair bit of subtle eye-contact and they were in accord about something.”
“The death of the princess, that’s all.”
“See, that’s what intrigues me. He called her in. He gave her permission to discuss it. She deferred to him. I have never seen her defer to anyone. Not once!”
Nash was still shaking his head but not as forcefully. “He’s not the type to get married.”
“Neither are we the type – we like our freedom too much - and yet we’d marry her tomorrow if she would say yes.”
�
�No argument there.”
“And did you say Mycroft was in Sussex too?”
“Yes, so?”
“Maybe it was him she wanted to be with. Who invited her to spend Christmas in Sussex?”
“He did.”
“See, they’re keeping the marriage a secret from Sherlock and Dr Watson so as not to rock the boat. Hang on! Or else the other two are in on it and are protective of her for the sake of social approval, or should that be disapproval. There’s something else. I’ve always thought someone high up in government was protecting her. I think it could be your boss. He’s got influence, hasn’t he?”
“More influence than you can imagine.”
“I bet he’s been looking out for her.”
Nash nodded in the dark, recalling how his boss’s behaviour had altered since the Countess had arrived in London. He swallowed hard and tossed his spent cigarette on the damp grass. “Let’s go. This business isn’t going to sort itself out. We need to nail that mysterious photographer before he makes a better job of it next time.”
They reached the top of the rise when Moriarty paused. “Maybe we should let him.”
“What?”
“May be we should let him clear the path to the church.”
Nash laughed crudely. “You haven’t changed! Still the same cunning cocky bastard!”
“All’s fair in love and war!”
Nash caught Moriarty by the arm as he commenced to stride off. “Why don’t the two of us act smart for a change?”
“How do you mean? And let go my arm if you know what’s good for you.”
Nash released his grip. “Let’s leave the small fry to Scotland Yard. We want to nail the bastard who commissioned the bomb man. Like the Countess said - it has to be one of the guests.”