by Anna Lord
“Kent is not that bad,” argued Damery. “And I got it from Hubbard who got it from Bebbington at the Carlton Club that Longchamps has been rejuvenated.”
“That’s just gossip dressed up as news. Once you get membership here you won’t have to spend time with idiots like Hubbard and Bebbington. The Carlton Club will go into serious decline when everyone jumps ship. We can double the membership fee here and buy our own golf course. I was thinking about that course in St Andrews.”
The conversation drifted to golf courses and the men seemed to sober up.
“Grimsby,” snapped de Merville, “leave those blasted cigars alone – you look like you’re putting them to bed - and fetch three strong black coffees as fast as you can.”
She returned with coffee to find that the three men had returned to topic of Longchamps.
“Nash inherited some money from his great-aunt that had been earmarked specifically for the family seat,” Damery was saying. “I’ve been meaning to go down and have a look. The Forsyths were passing through Kent last November and the old family retainer at Longchamps gave them a tour. They couldn’t believe the transformation.”
“Well, that’s sealed it for me,” declared the American tycoon. “I wouldn’t mind a weekend away from the soot and smoke. If the Valkyrie and the Snow Queen are there it will improve the view as long as they understand their role is to entertain the gentlemen. We can get that damned bomb business out of the way on the first night and enjoy a few hands of whist.”
“Well, I’m not changing my mind,” emphasised de Merville strenuously. “And Violet won’t be going either. You can have all that whist to yourself. Grimsby put some more coals on the fire and give it a good poke. Then take this empty bottle and get rid of it behind the bar. No need to say who drank it. If anyone asks, you have no idea, is that clear?”
She was crossing the entrance hall when Pettigrew loomed into view. His voice was a low threatening snarl.
“I haven’t seen you all afternoon, Grimsby. If I find you’ve been loafing off somewhere, having a cigarette on the sly in the latrine, it will be your first and last day in one. What have you got there behind your back?”
She gulped. “An empty bottle, sir.”
He checked the label and his face darkened. “Where did you find that?”
“Under the Christmas tree, sir. I was straightening the limp candles when –”
“It’s all right, Pettigrew,” interrupted Major Nash, coming down the stairs. “The Scotch was compliments of Mr Holmes to the three gentlemen in the Stranger’s Room.” He turned his attention to her. “Colchester will direct you where to put the empty bottle, Grimsby, and then make me a gin and tonic and bring it up to my office. No ice. Let’s make that the last word before there is a formal complaint from one of the members.”
He was waiting for her in his office when she arrived with his gin and tonic plus a slab of ginger cake and a cup of tea.
“How did the invitations go down?” he quizzed. “What’s this? I didn’t request more cake and another cup of tea?”
“It’s for me. I’m famished. I missed my lunch because I was up here talking to you.” She chewed and talked at the same time. “Damery and Blague are all for going to Kent but de Merville was adamant he and Violet weren’t going.”
Major Nash’s bold brow drew down in a thoughtful frown. “If what you said earlier about de Merville listening in on the telephone conversation was accurate then it’s imperative for him to be there. If he’s planning a coup d’etat it puts him in the frame for the bombs. We either need to expose him or put the wind up him enough to back off. But to do that we have to get him to Longchamps.”
She moved to the window to look out on Pall Mall as she gulped her tea. Winter had dropped its dark mantle hours ago but how wondrously the gaslights burned through the fog, creating haloes of moony light. In 1807 Pall Mall was the first street in London to have gas-lamps installed. It reduced the crime rate and was considered a marvel. Almost one hundred years later, in the year 1900, it was still a marvel.
“I want to better understand something and I would ask Mycroft but he’s not here right now,” she said quizzically. “Explain to me the importance of the role of primus baro. I still can’t see how it really matters. This is a gentlemen’s club, albeit with important members, not parliament.”
He didn’t reply straight away but moved to the second window, gin and tonic in hand, and stared at the golden glow of aureoles banishing the gloom while he considered her relationship to Mycroft Holmes. There was definitely something between them though she had denied they were married. Lovers perhaps? Yes, that made sense. Mycroft Holmes had been behaving strangely ever since the Countess returned to London with Dr Watson nearly a month ago, and she usually referred to him as Mycroft, not Mr Holmes, or even Mycroft Holmes, and she softened the sound of his name when she said it. He wasn’t just imagining it. She did it again just a moment ago.
“Primus baro means first baron. Mycroft Holmes might not sit in parliament but he controls almost everything behind the scenes.”
“How? Why? Who grants him such power?”
“You’ve heard of the Knights Templar?”
“Yes, of course.”
“They were the world’s bankers. That was their power. Nothing’s changed.”
She felt the enormity of that simple explanation when the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. “So whoever is elected primus baro wields enormous financial clout throughout the length and breadth of the kingdom?”
“Further than that.”
“So it is important for the primus baro to be an honest man rather than a self-serving megalomaniac?”
“Yes.”
“The alternative for England and the world could be a nightmare.”
“Yes.”
His capacity for understatement served to emphasise just how terrible the nightmare could be. “Mycroft was elected about three months ago. Tell me how the elections work.”
“Primus baro is a position for life. The next primus baro can only get elected if Mycroft dies. Only the six committee members can put themselves up for election, five now that Admiral Quantock is deceased. Two don’t want the job and the third is the incapacitated Earl of Winchester. He’s still a committee member but no longer primus baro. That only leaves de Merville. If anything happens to Mycroft it’s a one horse race.”
She replaced her empty tea cup on the tray. “If you have no objection, I will use your bathroom. I cannot use the gentlemen’s latrines for obvious reasons and I cannot use the ladies’ WC either.”
As she was returning to his office, passing through the bedroom, she caught sight of the Matryoshka doll she had spotted earlier on his desk. It was sitting on the opposite bedside table, split into its five individual pieces. She scooped them up.
“Where did you get this?”
He managed to hide his surprise after the first stupefied blink. “Is that the one from my bedside table?”
“Yes, where did it come from?”
He took a deep breath. “De Merville’s room. I conducted a search while he was at lunch. He will know I’ve got it but he won’t say anything because it will incriminate him.”
“Incriminate him?”
“Apparently the princess gave a nesting doll to each of her lovers. That doll proves de Merville was one of her lovers and had a motive to kill her.”
She put the five nesting dolls back together and closed them up. “It also means he didn’t murder her. The nesting doll in the bathtub must have belonged to the killer but if this one belongs to de Merville then he cannot be the killer.”
He quickly revised his theory and agreed with her logic. “I’ve got some men searching Damery’s house right now for that same reason. I put some of my best men onto it when you told me he was currently in the Stranger’s Room with de Merville. They should report back soon.”
She thought about the other illustrious lovers. “Did Freddy Cazenove have a doll?�
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“Yes, his room at the Carlton Club was searched last night, along with Damery’s, I might add. There was a nesting doll in Freddy’s wardrobe but nothing was found amongst Damery’s possessions. Freddy’s doll is currently in my desk drawer. And, no, we won’t be conducting a search of Marlborough House. It’s true the Prince of Wales met with Princess Paraskovia on two occasions while visiting the dying Earl of Winchester and that he spent time with the princess in an upstairs bedroom but to suggest he murdered her because of that fleeting liaison is stretching credulity. He would need to murder half the ladies at court and a quite a few from the royal courts of Europe. Mycroft also met with the princess while visiting the Earl. They walked in the gardens on at least six occasions. I believe she was sounding him out about her estrangement from the prince. He may have advised her on Clarges Hotel.”
“If it turns out that Damery has a nesting doll,” she reasoned, “then we can assume Prince Sergei killed his own wife – he’s the only one left. The doll in the bath must have been his and that’s why he took it. He paid a visit to the hotel to speak to Mycroft to put the wind up him and to see if he could retrieve his doll.”
He nodded as he put his hand out for her to give him the doll then unlocked his desk drawer using a small key in his pocket and locked de Merville’s doll inside with Freddy’s.
She gathered up the crockery and the three trays. “I better get downstairs before Pettigrew has my guts for garters.”
He chuckled softly. “Where did a Ukrainian countess learn a phrase like that?”
“You might be shocked by the answer so I will spare you.”
He noted the coquettish smile under the moustache and fought the urge to sweep her back into his arms. “No,” he said blandly, eyeing the sexless butler’s uniform, “I don’t think anything you say or do will ever shock me again.” He picked up one of the invitations on the desk and grimaced. “Wish me luck.”
“What for?”
“I’m going to deliver Mrs Klein’s invitation in person. If I hurry I will make it just in time before she changes out of her tea gown into her robe de shark.”
She thought he said chic. “Robe de diner,” she corrected.
“If that’s what you want to call it.”
So that’s why he had put on the clean shirt and the brocade waistcoat. She presumed he had spruced himself up for her benefit. Vanity suffered a flesh wound. “Make sure you drop the hint that I am hoping she will decline. And don’t worry about de Merville. I will invite Violet to lunch tomorrow and tell her how much fun Longchamps will be. I think she fancies you. She will put the pressure on papa. I will invite Miss Blague too, just to make sure Mr Blague does not pull out at the last moment. You will have to fight her off with a stick when she discovers you’re a baronet. I won’t mention you have mastered the mechanics of kissing. She will wet herself.”
There were more than a dozen different responses to that tease, all ending with a demonstration of something else he had mastered the mechanics of. But he had also mastered the mechanics of restraint. He snatched up his Savile Row coat and silk topper from a chair in the corner, well-satisfied that he had just raced past the first post and galloped ahead of Jim. “You really are a force to be reckoned with!”
As Major Nash travelled from Pall Mall to Grosvenor Square he thought about the irony called Life: He could have any woman he wanted except the one he wanted.
He thought about Mycroft’s relationship to the Countess too. As soon as the idea struck him that the two of them were lovers he couldn’t shake it. He recalled the secret dossier Mycroft Holmes had compiled on Countess Varvara Volodymyrovna. It ran to more than a hundred pages. He’d never even heard of her until Mycroft instructed him to find out everything he could. It made for fascinating reading. She had been born out of wedlock to a nameless stage actress – a euphemism for prostitute. The father was unknown, most likely the Count of Odessos, presumably a client of the prostitute, and the man who paid generously to adopt the child.
He’d always assumed Mycroft was planning to recruit the Countess to spy on Russia but perhaps it was more personal than that. Or perhaps both – spy and lover? That was the usual way. Mycroft made Machiavelli look like a rank amateur. Heaven help England if he ever decided to swap sides.
Spy and lover? Yes, that’s probably why Mycroft took all those walks in the garden with the princess while supposedly visiting the dying Earl of Winchester. He’d told her six walks but it was double that. Mycroft was probably gathering more information on the Countess’s early life. There were no secrets among Russia’s nobility. Hmm, odd that Prince Sergei should be staying in Odessa around the time of the death of the Count of Odessos. Did the princess know more about that sudden death? Did she pass the information to Mycroft? Was Mycroft planning to use it against Russia’s new ambassador in order to extort favours?
It’s no wonder Mycroft called the Countess in when the body of the princess was discovered in the bathtub. And it’s no wonder she came running. She found the nesting dolls, including the littlest, and the birch bark too. She knew what to look for. She understood the significance. She did Mycroft’s bidding.
Mycroft went briefly to Battersea Park to view the bloated face of the man who had set the bombs. He didn’t expect to recognize him. The man was a petty criminal. He would have placed the bombs where he had been told to place them. The positioning of the bombs could not have been done earlier because they might have been discovered by the Prince’s guardsmen or even one of the guests, as had happened to the third bomb – inadvertently moved by someone at the last moment and put under the stairs. Someone else at the ball, possibly a member of staff, would have switched on the timers ready for detonation and fled.
By tomorrow Lestrade would give up trying to identify the bomb man and Sherlock would be summoned. He would leave Sherlock to deal with the petty criminals.
He exchanged a few words with Lestrade then proceeded to the estate of the Earl of Winchester. He would sit for a few minutes by the bedside of his old friend and then walk down to the birch wood before it got dark. There was a lake and a folly; nothing grand, not a Greek Temple to the gods but a little wooden tea-house. The sort of thing you see in children’s fairy tales about Hansel and Gretel.
“Where have you been, Grimsby?” Pettigrew seemed to be in a perennially bad mood. Not that she could blame him. Her butlering skills left a lot to be desired and her erratic behaviour would have driven most maître d’s to distraction. He was glaring at the three trays covered with an assortment of dirty plates, cups and glasses.
“I was tidying Major Nash’s office, sir. He spilled his tea on his desk and it made a mess of his papers, sir. He asked me to clean it up.”
He regarded her suspiciously. “You were in his office unsupervised?”
“No, sir, Major Nash was there to supervise. He has now gone out. I saw him go out the door as I was crossing the hall, sir.”
Pettigrew seemed satisfied. “You missed your tea break. You can take it now. There are cold roast beef sandwiches and slices of ginger cake in the staff dining room off the kitchen. I think you missed your lunch too. You can take an extra ten minutes for your tea, Grimsby, and then I want you to set the tables for dinner. One setting per table.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Oh, God! She couldn’t take any more of this punishment! She had always thought of herself as hardy – rich and spoilt but never pampered - until she put on this horrid butler’s uniform. She would never complain about a tight corset again after having her breasts strapped with bandages. Her feet were throbbing like crazy and her legs were ready to drop off. She’d been up and down the staircase a hundred times. She pictured Dr Watson lazing about on a cushioned bench in the Turkish Baths and almost wept.
Mycroft Holmes returned to find her folding linen napkins into the shape of fleur-de-lis. It was like origami for idiots.
“You’re the new butler?” he addressed her way, loud enough for Pettigrew
to hear. “Grimsby, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I will be dining in my room tonight, Grimsby. It is the dome room at the top of the stairs. You can bring my meal up as soon as you are done folding these napkins, that way you will familiarize yourself with all the different areas of our club. Bring your silver polishing cloth. My collection of silver wine coasters needs a good clean. I will have the Beef Wellington with mushy peas and mash, a slice of Bakewell Tart and a bottle of the Romanee-Conti Grand Cru.”
“The 82 or 83, sir?”
“Which one do you recommend, Grimsby?”
“The 83, sir.”
As soon as she delivered Mycroft’s dinner she threw the polishing cloth on the floor and fell in a heap on his settee. “I cannot take much more of this. I have another an hour to go and I think I will die.” After several more minutes of pathetic whining she hardened up. “Did you view the body of the bomb man?”
“Yes, but…no matter, the man was a petty criminal, nothing more. He was strangled and then thrown in the lake so that he would not lead us to the person who hired him. Sherlock can follow it up tomorrow. Where’s Major Nash? The hall porter said he went out more than an hour ago.”
“He wanted to deliver the invitation to Mrs Klein in person.”
She then went on to explain about what had transpired in his absence as she helped herself to his glass of Grand Cru to dull the pain shooting up her legs. He listened carefully, especially when she paraphrased the conversation between the three men in the Stranger’s Room and the fact Major Nash had found a Matryoshka doll in de Merville’s bedroom. She finished with the news the general had listened in on the telephone conversation concerning the bomb man.