by Anna Lord
“Understood,” said Sherlock, comprehending why the colonel said ‘never’ with such conviction.
Mycroft drained his brandy and with a yawn levered his bulky frame out of his padded seat. “Goodnight, gentlemen, I shall catch up with you shortly in Kent, except for you, Colonel Moriarty. Thank you once again for saving my life.” He reached the door and paused. “By the way, January the sixth, which happens to be epiphany or twelfth night or Orthodox Christmas Eve – whichever you prefer – marks the twenty-fifth birthday of Countess Volodymyrovna. We shall not turn the event into a fanfare but a small gift may be appropriate. Bear in mind nothing you buy will be as valuable as that which she can buy for herself. A few lines of original heartfelt verse on a scrap of paper will be appreciated more than the Crown jewels of England.”
13
Dacha
Sherlock was up at first light, rugged up in his Inverness cape and deerstalker hat, tramping around the lake in search of the mythical Snark. He quickly found the spot where the body went into the water, evidenced by two sets of footprints and something heavy being dragged along the muddy waterline.
There were also five sets of footprints around the pump house. Now, Colonel Moriarty had stayed behind last night to recount the events of the night he met Major Nash in the Copper Beech wood. The two men had started off in the wood then moved separately around the perimeter of the lake and met up again by the pump house. That meant two sets of prints belonged to the two of them and three belonged to persons unknown.
A peremptory search of the pump house immediately revealed scraps of fabric that had been caught on protruding nails. Someone had strangled the photographer by hand, either inside the pump house, or somewhere else and then tossed the body into the pump house for a short period of time. So, was the man strangled before he went into the pump house or after he went in?
Logic suggested the photographer needed to disappear in a hurry after placing that third bomb in position on the hall table. The pump house made for a perfect hiding place. Someone later turned up, time unknown, strangled him and left him for dead. The following night two men – as indicated by the footprints - dragged the dead body to the lake and dumped it.
The splash heard by Major Nash and Colonel Moriarty suggests the body remained hidden in the pump house until the following night when it could be safely disposed of.
Yes, it fit the facts.
Unfortunately, it did not tell him who hired the photographer in the first place. That would require deductive reasoning beyond a series of physical clues. It would require an intuitive grasp of the eternal human motivators called revenge, greed, ambition, power and lust.
Roses are red, violets are blue…
Dr Watson tried for an hour to pen a few lines of original heartfelt verse before giving up and remembering he had something on his bookshelf that was better. He tied it with a bow and proceeded to the Aga Hammam Baths. Colonel Moriarty was there ahead of him, collecting his towel from the attendant.
“Hello, Dr Watson.”
“I thought you said you never came here?”
“I changed my mind. Tell me which comes first. Is it tepidarium or caldarium?”
“Tepidarium, caldarium, frigidarium and then it’s the massage?”
“I’ve booked a private massage for later.”
“Brave man – good luck with that.”
Colonel Moriarty laughed and accompanied the doctor to the tepidarium.
“What was Sherlock Holmes doing with that telescopic device fitted over his right eye?”
Dr Watson had noted the colonel’s curious gaze the previous evening and had been expecting the questions to come thick and fast as he showed him to the door; he had therefore prepared his answers in advance. “He was studying some cigar ash when that terrible business with the black dog happened. He just left it on. Sometimes he leaves it on all day. He forgets it’s even there.”
Colonel Moriarty seemed to accept the explanation as they settled on some benches in the warm steam room.
“I could have sworn I heard his left arm crank and whirr when he and I picked up the dead dog and tossed it into the wheelbarrow. It hissed like a mechanical snake.”
Thankfully Sherlock had his old dressing gown over the top of his exo-skeleton arm. “You’re very perceptive. He was experimenting with a mechanical sleeve. He has attached a clock and various useful battery-fed devices to a leather sleeve.”
“What for?”
“He is hoping to do away with pockets - he is forever losing things - plus it allows him to have numerous useful items on hand at all times; handy in his line of work.”
“I see.”
A couple of men joined them on the benches and nothing more was said until they transferred themselves to the caldarium which they had to themselves.
“I was wondering about Sherlock’s left boot,” said Moriarty with a curious inflection. “It didn’t match the boot on his right leg.”
“A result of his accident from that time at Reichenbach Falls in 1891. The plunge over the cliff left him with a slight limp. He is a bit embarrassed about it. He can be quite vain.”
Mention of Reichenbach Falls always caused Moriarty to flinch. It was no secret his mad, professorial, elder sibling had tried to kill Mr Holmes, and over the years he had discovered it was common for people to hold the entire clan guilty for the actions of one. He was thus sensitive to the long draw of the bow.
“This heat is getting to me. I’ll leave you to it and try out the frigidarium before I take that private massage.”
The cold plunge pool took the heat out of his sensitivity so that by the time he stretched out on the bench for his massage he was back in control of his emotions. When the handsome young masseur got around to his private parts, a swift kick to his groin was all it took to set him straight about where to keep his hands. A peep hole in the mural of the Alhambra told him there was a camera lens on the other side of the wall. It was aimed at the bed.
A nice little earner for Mrs Isadora Klein.
When he emerged from his private massage he decided to hunt out Dr Watson in one of the alcoves but ran into Inigo Nash in the frigidarium instead.
“What are you doing here?” he snarled.
“Same as you.”
“Have you seen Dr Watson?”
“He just left. Why?”
Moriarty decided to take the plunge. He shed his towel and hopped in next to Nash.
“Not too close,” warned Nash. “People will talk and you’re not my type.”
“Shut up and listen.” He lowered his voice and told him who owned the Baths and also about the private massage room.
“That explains the entourage of dopey puppies trailing in her wake,” said Nash ruefully, glancing round to make sure no one was watching them. The frigidarium sat in the centre of the Aga Hammam Baths making it possible to see everyone coming and going. “Don’t look now but Malamtov just arrived. Take your best shot at my jaw.”
Moriarty smiled broadly. “This must be my lucky day.”
He balled his fist and let fly but Nash dodged. Before he knew it he was on the receiving end of something that felt like a sledgehammer. He fell backwards with a mighty splash, swallowed a mouthful of ice water, surfaced, shook himself the way a dog does when it wants to dry off, and took aim a second time, determined not to miss, but Nash blocked him and a wrestling match ensued where neither man could best the other. They resembled two fighting fish in a freezing cold pool. A small crowd gathered, including Prince Malamtov. Some of the men were taking bets. It was almost like old times. No, it was exactly like old times.
Wild horses would not keep Miss Mona Blague from Longchamps. After missing out on the heart-stopping excitement of three bombs she was determined to go to Kent. Even before arriving for lunch at Mayfair Mews she had heard all about the dashing Major ‘Horatio Hornblower’ Nash and the genuine Russian prince who was newly widowed. When her daddy suggested she take his place at the opera with the Van
derlindens she laughed in his face, picked up her reticule and went to the House of Papillon to order three new evening gowns, a white lace peignoir, and a black silk corset with red ribbon lacing.
Violet de Merville was equally determined. “I made sure papa RSVP’d Mr Holmes and Major Nash at the Diogenes Club first thing this morning. Kent is lovely at this time of year if one overlooks the sea-fog, the marsh mist and the constant drizzle.”
Prince Sergei was enjoying the warm air in the tepidarium when Sir James Damery sauntered in, feeling lethargic and out of sorts.
“You just missed a spectacle,” said the prince eagerly.
“Really,” remarked the other, feigning interest, “what was that?”
“Two men brawling in the frigidarium. It was the same two men who were duelling on the night of the ball.”
Damery perked up. “Major Nash and Colonel Moriarty?”
“Yes, they were frog-marched out of here by four Mamelukes and told not to return for the rest of the month.”
“What was the brawl about? Do you know?”
“Probably that provocative Ukrainian – Varvara Volodymyrovna! Her step-aunt was exactly the same. Zoya Volodymyrovna only had to look at a man to provoke him. Men duelled over her every month. The Tsar tried to put a stop to it when he realized half his equerries were dead or seriously injured but it was impossible. Those two young men did not resolve anything on the night of the ball and it is festering. Fortunately the Irishman is not on the guest list for Longchamps or it would be a debacle.”
“Will we see you at Longchamps, Prince Malamtov?”
“I have plans to go to Scotland – some grouse shooting. I am not really interested in this bomb business. It has nothing to do with me. In Russia we would line up all the suspects and shoot them. Do you know if the Valkyrie is going to Kent?”
“Yes, she has accepted the invitation.”
“And Countess Varvara?”
“She is going too.”
“And Miss de Merville?”
“The invitation was declined by the general but Miss de Merville forced a turnaround.”
Malamtov laughed heartily. “He of Khyber Pass fame raised the white flag! Ha! What about the daughter of that rich American?”
“Oh, yes, Miss Mona Blague is definitely going.”
Prince Sergei leaned against the wall of the tepidarium and closed his eyes for a few minutes. “I think grouse shooting is highly overrated as a sport. One might as well shoot chickens in a hen-house. I think I might go to Kent instead.”
“We need to talk,” said Major Nash after he and Colonel Moriarty were ignominiously evicted from the Aga Hammam Baths by four Persians who looked like angry djinns out of the Arabian Nights.
They were standing on one of the busiest thoroughfares in London with shirts hanging out, waistcoats unbuttoned, damp socks and perfectly matching scowls.
Moriarty got his back up at once. He knew exactly what the baronet wanted to discuss and he wasn’t about to back off. It rankled that he had been excluded from the weekend at Longchamps and now that he knew it was the Countess’s birthday it rankled even more.
“Forget it,” he snarled. “I’m not giving you a clear run past the first post.”
“Too late. But that’s not what I want to discuss. This is serious.”
“And the Countess isn’t? What do you mean – too late?”
“Forget I said it. Let’s get some lunch.”
“Where did you have in mind? The way we look we won’t get into anything except a gin palace.”
Major Nash smoothed back his wet hair and considered their options. “We’ll go to the Carlton Club. I’m a member there as well as the Diogenes and they’re not as fussy about wet socks and mismatched buttons.”
Hearing that Nash was a member of two exclusive clubs while he was a member of none, pissed Moriarty off even more but he wasn’t about to turn down a free lunch and the chance to step foot inside the prestigious Carlton Club. He hailed a hansom and off they went, aligning mismatched buttons, tucking in their shirts and doing up their waistcoats as the cab swung past Trafalgar Square and rolled smoothly down Pall Mall, past the firmly shut doors of the Diogenes Club.
“Before I start on the topic I want to discuss,” said Major Nash, adopting the tone of a city banker about to tell someone they are overdrawn, “I want to say I heard what happened last night.”
Moriarty got his back up again. “If you’re about to accuse me of staging that dog incident so that I could -”
“I wasn’t about to accuse you of anything. I know you’re not smart enough to think of anything that complicated. You’re more visceral”
“Visceral?”
A reply was forestalled by their arrival at the Carlton Club. Major Nash signed his visitor in and they proceeded without incident to the dining room. It was getting on to the tail end of lunch and the room was only a quarter full. The major selected a table to the rear, against a wall, where they were least likely to be interrupted or overheard. The menu was a la carte and Colonel Moriarty made the most of it. They washed it down with a Puligny-Montrachet.
“Last night’s incident convinced me that Mycroft Holmes needs someone looking out for him who is able to think…” Major Nash was about to say ‘like an assassin’.
Colonel Moriarty filled the gap, “Viscerally.”
“Yes, that’s it – viscerally.”
“And you naturally thought of me?”
“It needs to be someone the assassin is not looking out for; someone who thinks like an assassin.”
“Hang on a minute!”
“I’m not making any accusations. I’m making you an offer.”
“An offer?”
“Mycroft Holmes will need someone watching his back at Longchamps. It cannot be me because I’m hosting the weekend and because the assassin will strike the moment my back is turned.”
“You’re inviting me to Longchamps?”
“Try to keep up. You pretend to socialize with the guests but in reality you’re protecting Mycroft Holmes. There’s no money in it. This isn’t a contract. But if it works out it could actually be the only way you will ever gain membership of a decent London club. I’m not promising entrée into the Diogenes but maybe the Carlton Club.”
Moriarty began nodding; the plan had several angles of appeal apart from the obvious, but the drawback was obvious too. “You forget I haven’t been invited. As soon as I turn up everyone will know something is afoot, especially if I stick like dog turd to Mr Holmes.”
“I thought about that. You just need to act your cocky self. You make it seem as if you and I are still feuding over the Countess and you have no intention of not being invited because you are wracked with jealousy. I play the part of the aggrieved host who is being forced to put up with an uninvited guest. We won’t tell Mycroft Holmes you’re protecting him. It will work better if he doesn’t know. This is between you and me.”
“Why are you being so protective? It’s not like he’s the next King of England.”
“Trust me on this one. He’s more important than the next King of England.”
Moriarty was so stunned by that rejoinder her drained his glass in one fell swoop and refilled it without waiting for the butler to do it for him. “You will need to allocate me a bedroom next door to his.”
“I already have. I think it might be a good idea if you head down to Longchamps this afternoon.” Major Nash reached into his pocket and extracted a calling card and a small pencil. He scribbled a few words and put his signature to it. “Take this with you and show it to my old retainer, name of Yardley, he will grant you entry to look around all you like. When you finish memorizing the layout of the place, especially the 15 staircases so that you can shadow Mr Holmes without making it look obvious, take a room at an inn and wait until midday Saturday then just arrive unannounced.”
“After that we play it by ear?”
Major Nash nodded. “Think you can pull it off?”
&nb
sp; “I think I can manage wracked with jealousy. By the way, what did you mean when you said: Too late?”
“Don’t get distracted. Remember what you’re going to Longchamps for.”
They ordered cognac and cigars as if celebrating success already.
Colonel Moriarty savoured the golden nectar and the expensive tobacco aroma; he could get used to a club like the Carlton. It wasn’t the Diogenes but it was a foot in the door. “Did you ever wonder who your secret benefactor was?”
Major Nash leaned back in his chair, blew some rings of cigar smoke into the air and watched them hover above the little crimson shade of the table-lamp. He had thought often about the unknown person who paid their fees at the Royal Military Academy and provided them with a generous allowance as well. The purchase of commissions had been abolished but it was still only the sons of the wealthy who could afford to graduate from places like Sandhurst or Woolwich. “I thought it might be General de Merville. What about you?”
“I thought it might be Sir James Damery.”
“Hmm, I thought that’s what you’d say, because he’s Irish, but our benefactor had to be the same man because our stipends were identical and our fees paid at the exact same time. And lately, just lately, I have started thinking our secret benefactor was Mycroft Holmes.”
Lunch finished early when Miss Blague decided she needed new shoes to go with her new gowns and Violet de Merville decided she would not be left out in the cold when it came to a lacy peignoir. The Countess - who had enough peignoirs for everyone in Kent - decided to finally call on the Earl of Winchester. She had been back in London for almost a month and had not yet paid a visit. The fact he’d had a stroke and could no longer speak was no excuse for her lack of good manners.
Death comes to us all but when it also strips us of dignity it is a terrible thing. How much luckier to be strangled and thrown in the lake, blown to smithereens by a bomb, or shot outright by a duelling pistol, than to be reduced to skin and bone, unable to feed oneself, toilet oneself, or move about, unable to take pleasure in a simple walk in the garden. It is a sorry sight when a man who was once athletic and vigorous is reduced to a caricature of Dying.