by Anna Lord
Terrified and intrigued, Dr Watson and the Countess re-entered the house using the door closest to the stable-yard and arrived in the great hall, joining up with the rest of the party, just as Colonel Moriarty was being shown in by Ponsonby.
Major Nash leapt from his seat; eyes blazing fiercely. “What the deuce!” he cursed, forgetting himself in front of the ladies. “What are you doing here?” he demanded brusquely, noting the bulging carpet bag that signalled a houseguest who intended to stay.
Undeterred, the colonel appeared as cocky as ever, if not cockier. “My invitation must have gone astray; an easy thing to happen since I move about a fair bit when I’m in London. I hope I’m not too late for lunch.”
The grandfather clock began to strike twelve and everyone braced for the possibility of Major Nash striking Colonel Moriarty. Breaths were drawn as everyone recalled the duel by the lake that didn’t quite play out to the bitter end.
But Major Nash was quick to temper himself. The dark flush highlighting his cut-glass cheekbones that signalled rousing anger faded away as swiftly as it came. He addressed himself to Ponsonby. “I’ll show the colonel to his room. Leave it with me. Serve lunch in half an hour. We cannot wait any longer for Prince Sergei and Mrs Klein. As soon as the ladies change into fresh clothes we will sit down.”
He flashed a devastating smile at his female guests who took the hint and proceeded upstairs to put on something dressier that would take them into the afternoon. Morning costumes tended to be unfussy, usually in cotton or wool, perhaps with soutache swirls, a touch of embroidery, a contrasting ribbon or a pinch-pleated frill, while afternoon costumes featured beautiful brocades and velvets edged in fur. Tea gowns tended to be more romantic: cutwork linen or delicate Bobbin lace or Irish crochet, but the real fashion show would not start until after dark when ladies would appear as painterly visions draped in lustrous fabrics – silk, satin, taffeta, chiffon - like kinetic works of art covered in beads and jewels that glittered in the candlelight.
The men likewise thought they might freshen up prior to lunch and followed the ladies.
Major Nash indicated for the colonel to follow him in the opposite direction and the Countess guessed their host intended to install his uninvited guest in the valet’s room next door to Dr Watson who had taken over the ground floor bedroom from Mycroft. A wise choice, she thought, until she realized he would be able to see from his small window every time Dr Watson visited the stable, and he would soon see through Mr Dixie’s and Sherlock’s disguise too.
“There’s a spare room upstairs,” she called after the two men, deciding it would be easier to keep an eye on the colonel if his bedroom came off the upper gallery.
Major Nash looked back over his shoulder and another dark flush highlighted his cheekbones. “What?”
“There are ten bedrooms coming off the upper gallery and only nine of them are being used. Colonel Moriarty can take the tenth.”
Colonel Moriarty had already started to wonder where Nash might be leading him. He had noticed the other guests tripping up the main stairs. He suspected his old cadre might be ushering him to the servants’ quarters. He wouldn’t put it past the baronet to treat him like the hired help. He swivelled on his heel and began to follow the Countess up the stairs. He liked her plan better.
Major Nash was livid. He blasphemed before storming off outside for a few deep breaths of frigid air that might help restore his sanity. He lit a cigarette and puffed furiously as he paced the knot garden, counting off the angry strides to stop from cursing her name. She was turning all his carefully laid plans on their head.
And he was jealous too. He didn’t mind admitting it. But slow and steady won the race. Jim’s double life exhausted people. His constant lying eventually grew tiresome. She would soon see through him. In the end she would choose a man who would honour, cherish and protect her. A man who would love her with every breath of his body. A man who would be a decent father to her children. A man who could provide the sort of life every woman dreamed of.
When a magnificent red carriage with a royal Russian emblem on the door rolled beneath the arch of the gatehouse, he stepped back quickly behind a tall topiary and watched as Isadora Klein emerged like a tsarina, bolstering her cannons and smoothing back her luxurious black mane.
Prince Sergei emerged a moment later from the opposite side of the carriage, straightening his waistcoat and smoothing back his rich sweep of silver hair.
That explained the late arrival. There had been no hurry to rush the journey.
A few moments later Mrs Klein’s lacquered carriage arrived with her luggage on it so that it appeared as if they had travelled in two carriages instead of one.
Colonel Moriarty waited until the Countess paused at the bedroom door. He thanked her courteously as he flung it open and hauled her inside like a piece of baggage, checking to make sure no one was watching, before closing the door behind himself. The action had been fluid, bold, reckless, and completely in character.
“Do you and Nash have an understanding?” he said, standing in front of the door should she decide to leave before he had received a satisfactory reply.
Feigning calm, she strolled to the window to catch her breath; her heart always beat a little faster in his presence. “I think this view of the garden is better than the stable-yard.”
Like most men he had a one track mind and repeated the question a little more volubly. “Do you and Nash have an understanding?”
She turned her head and looked him in the eye because looking at him always thrilled her, though he was not the handsomest man she’d ever met, not by a long shot. But what he lacked in physical attractiveness he made up in sheer physicality; there radiated off him an aura of virility that throbbed and burned and warned her not to get too close.
“Major Nash and I have no understanding whatsoever, neither the sort you are alluding to, nor any other. The man is behaving most peculiarly. If I didn’t know better I’d say he is not serious about protecting Mycroft.” She waited to see what he would make of that confession.
His poker face ran a gamut of emotions but it was fear that sharpened his features as he stepped away from the door. “Lower your voice. What makes you say that?”
“Several things which I don’t have time to go into right now (and don’t wish to share with you because I don’t know if I can trust you either) because I need to change for lunch. But I am starting to suspect our host might have designs on being the next primus baro.”
His stomach did a sickly somersault and he for once he was glad it was empty. Was he being played for a sucker by Nash? Was Nash playing a game of double bluff? Was Nash setting up an Irishman to take the blame for Mycroft’s assassination?
Moriarty caught her arm as she swept past him; there was a discordant note of desperation in the Irish lilt. “I presume you have good reason for saying that?”
“Not really, it’s more of a feeling. You better not be here on business,” she flared, feeling the heat from his hand like a flame from a candle.
“I’m not here to assassinate him, if that’s what you mean. If I had a contract Mycroft wouldn’t have stepped foot off the milk train.”
“How did you know he came on the milk train?”
Bang! Bang! He’s just shot himself in the foot! His hand fell limply away. “None of your business.”
“If anything bad happens to Mycroft and I find out you had something to do with it I won’t rest. There won’t be anywhere for you to hide. I will hunt you down.”
He met her steely gaze. “You care for him that much?”
“More than you can imagine.”
“I can imagine a lot.”
“Then start imagining how you’re going to keep him alive.”
His next words caught her before she reached the door. “Happy birthday, Varvara – this is for you.”
She whirled round, expecting to find herself in his arms and his lips stealing a punishing kiss but instead she was staring at some
thing weirdly mottled with a white tassel hanging on the end of it. “What is it?”
He looked slightly hurt. “A book mark made of birch bark.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” She could see he had carefully cut little love hearts into soft white flesh of the sacred tree. “I will treasure it,” she said sincerely, “thank you.”
15
Epiphany
A deerstalker hat awaited the Countess on her bed when she returned to her bedroom to change into a cream lace afternoon gown that finished with a slight train that swept the floor in her wake. The gift came with a card signed SH. She smiled and put it on, hoping for inspiration, as she pondered who was lying. Was it Major Nash or Colonel Moriarty?
Or were they conspiring together?
If Nash was elected primus baro he could conceivably approve Moriarty’s entry into the Diogenes Club. It would be a huge step up for two penniless sons from fallen families. What a coup de grace for two young men to control all that went on behind the scenes of government: to decide the Irish Guards question, to decide on membership of the most exclusive club in London, to control the world’s bank. Ambition, indeed!
Philip and Clement. King and Pope. They could easily have set the bombs. They were everywhere that night. Including in the dome room and then duelling down by the lake at just the right time. They could have strangled the studio photographer, then strangled the other one too, hidden him in the pump house and then dumped his body the following night when they met in the wood. And they might have broken into the house in Cheyne Walk to make sure no evidence pointed to them. And the incident with the dog – Nash knew where Mycroft was going and Moriarty happened along at just the right time. Coincidence? Perhaps they were making sure that when Mycroft was actually assassinated they were not considered as suspects. Moriarty had already saved his life! And Nash was the loyal ADC!
What about Princess Paraskovia? Could they be linked to the death of princess too? It was not as preposterous as it sounded. They had both been in love with Isadora Klein, and both had been rejected by her. Did they make a habit of sleeping with the same woman?
No, no, no, the theory was too pat, too neat, too obvious.
Lunch passed pleasantly and no one raised the topic of the bombs.
After lunch Dr Watson gave the Countess a hand-written copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles which he hoped one day to publish. The case had taken place in 1889 and the story had been serialized and made famous, but the doctor had high hopes of one day turning it into a proper novel.
“Returning to Baskerville with you,” he said; eyes slightly misty, “was the start of our friendship and I will always remember our time there together as something special. Happy birthday, dear lady.”
Rain set in and continued all afternoon. Guests moved seamlessly from the whist table to the seating around the fireplace in the great hall to the billiards room then back again. A jolly game of charades was organized by Miss Blague and even Mycroft joined in. Afternoon tea was served and then guests began to drift off. Some went to have a nap, some went to the gun room with their host to look at the new Purdeys; others decided to curl up with a book.
Now that everyone had gone their separate ways it was the perfect time to seek answers to questions such as: who left the dome room last, where did Prince Sergei go after he left the lake, where did Mrs Klein go after organizing the bucket brigade…But first, a visit to the oratory to check for cufflinks.
It was clear Major Nash did not come often to Longchamps. He brought what he needed with him from London and stored very little in his tiny cramped bedroom. In the top drawer of a tallboy sat a box made of mother-of-pearl inlay, the sort of thing tourists buy in the souks in Egypt and Morocco. It housed a few odd buttons, some jet tie pins and a couple of cheap cufflinks.
“Were you looking for me?”
Major Nash’s voice ambushed her at the base of the stairs in the long gallery. He must have heard her ferreting about in his room and simply waited for her to emerge from behind the tapestry.
“No,” she said with perfect candour, “I was searching for a cufflink.”
Truth was always unnerving and it amused her to see sure-footed men thrown off-balance by it.
“A cufflink?”
“A cufflink was found in the princess’s suite at Clarges Hotel.”
“Just one cufflink?”
“Yes.”
“And you thought I might have the matching pair?”
“Yes.”
He aimed a nervous glance back over his shoulder; the long gallery was like an echo chamber. “We can’t talk here. Go back up the stairs.”
Even in the oratory he was not satisfied they would not be overheard.
“Keep going up,” he directed, indicating the spiral stairs that went up to the tennis-play; a huge indoor Tudor tennis court with penthouses along one wall for waiting players and two viewing decks at either end for spectators. “You suspect me of killing Princess Paraskovia?”
She rarely replied to the obvious and she needed to keep the focus on him, not switch it to herself. “Did she give you a nesting doll?”
“You’re asking me if I was one of her lovers?”
“Were you?”
“She didn’t give me a nesting doll.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“You didn’t answer mine.”
She conceded the point and decided there was nothing for it but to unnerve him further. “Did you invite Colonel Moriarty here to assassinate Mycroft?”
He reacted as if he’d been slapped but recovery was swift. “No.”
“Did you invite Colonel Moriarty here to assassinate someone else?”
“I’m not in the habit of assassinating houseguests. If I wanted to assassinate someone I’d do it myself. You know about his double life?”
She snatched up a tennis racquet and swished the air. “Yes but I’d like to know more about yours.”
“I don’t have a double life.”
“Everyone does. Let’s play a game. What are the rules?”
He found a second racquet and picked up something small that was a cross between a ball and a shuttlecock. “Let’s keep it simple. No hitting into the penthouses or above the 18 foot line on the wall. Hitting the roof is permitted. Points are scored by the distance from the net the unreturned ball travels. You serve first.”
He had the advantage of trousers and being born a man. He was stronger, fitter and physically co-ordinated. The only way she was going to win was if he threw a game. She was glad he didn’t.
“Game, set, match,” she conceded graciously; breasts rising and falling in an effort to reign in her breath, “you win.”
“If only it were that easy.” His smile was a masterstroke that mingled love and desire and melted her defences, and when he used a finger to smooth back a loose curl of her up-pinned hair she was almost ready to concede defeat all over again and melt into his arms, but his restraint was as masterful as his game, and his voice a husky purr. “We seem to be on opposing sides. I don’t know how it happened. Mycroft’s safety is my only concern. Try not to get in my way. I know what I’m doing.”
“Good for you, Major Nash, because I have no idea what I’m doing but I intend to keep on doing it until I find the person who is trying to kill Mycroft. Try to stay out of my way.”
Sir James Damery was playing a game of Solitaire where the card table had been set up near the drinks trolley in the great hall. There was no one within earshot so she decided to start with him. “May I join you?”
Ever the diplomat, he stood up and pulled out a chair for her. “Certainly, Countess, I presume you have some questions about the night of the ball. That’s why we’re here, is it not?”
She was relieved he wasn’t going to be obstreperous. “Who was the last person to leave the room with the hookahs when you went out for the duel?”
“It was I. Major Nash went first. Colonel Moriarty followed. I closed the door.”
“
Later in the night, you helped to supervise the departure of the carriages. What do you recall happening in the carriage park?”
“Nothing at all, it was all quite orderly, oh, apart from a woman in a purple and gold dress who appeared to be frantically searching for someone. She was almost hit by one of the carriages.”
“Whose carriage?”
“It was Mr Blague’s. The horses were skittish and the driver seemed reckless.”
“Was there anything else you remember happening in the carriage park?”
“Well, it was a busy place, there was a lot happening, but not in the sense of anything unusual. After the Prince Regent left, most of the carriages did the same.”
“Which ones stayed till last?”
“Your troika, de Mervilles’ landau – I came with them and was checking to make sure they didn’t leave me behind, Lord Faversham’s carriage, Mrs Klein’s brougham, Prince Sergei’s distinctive red carriage, and one or two others.”
“I thought I saw a man in Mrs Klein’s carriage as I was crossing the carriage park,” she lied.
Damery dropped his diplomatic gaze. “Well, I wouldn’t know about that,” he replied tactfully and evasively, confirming that Xenia’s keen eye was not to be doubted.
“Do you recall seeing a camera on the hall table as you were going out to the lake?”
He shook his head. “No, I can’t recall seeing one but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t there. I wasn’t looking. Do you think the third bomb was inside the camera?”
“It does seem likely. Mrs Klein was meant to join you in the dome room but she failed to arrive. Do you know why?”
“I believe I heard Blague say she went up to the wrong room. There were two rooms with hookahs, you see, and she went to the other one and was surprised no one was there so she came back down to the dance floor.”
Mr Blague was randomly potting coloured balls on the billiard table when the Countess joined him.