The Curse Of The Diogenes Club

by Anna Lord

  “May I ask you some questions about the night of the ball?”

  “Go ahead. Care for a game of snooker while we talk?”

  “Certainly.” She chalked her cue while he set up the balls. “It was Mrs Klein who suggested you try the hookahs, is that right?”

  He nodded briskly. “I’ll break. The balls scatter better if a man breaks. Yes, she seemed very keen on the idea; she’d tried out the water pipes in Cairo. She said she’d meet us up there because she was supposed to have a dance with Pugswell or someone of that name but then that duel business happened and we all left.” He missed his shot and cussed.

  The Countess sank three balls in arrow. “She apparently went up to the wrong room?”

  “Nice play for a woman. Yes, she went to the room on the other side of the pavilion.”

  He missed again.

  “When you were discussing the duel can you recall what everyone was doing?” She sank another couple balls then deliberately missed the next.

  “Bad luck,” he said, not unhappily, sinking a few. “Just arguing – that’s what we were doing!”

  “Were you sampling the shisha while the argument was raging? Nice shot.”

  He beamed. “No, everyone was just milling about. Major Nash was pointing his pistol with menace and the Irish interloper was stood in the centre of the room with nowhere to run. Malamtov lit a cigarette and sauntered round the room looking bored. De Merville examined the water pipes and played around with them for a bit. Damery positioned himself between the two young bucks. I checked out the shisha. Being in the tobacco business, you see, it interested me quite a bit. I was keen to learn more but I never got the chance.”

  “You remained with Prince Sergei by the lake after the bombs went off?”

  He was going for his shot but missed. “I might take that shot again,” he said, “your question put me off my game.”

  “Oh, yes, certainly, I’ll wait till you’ve finished.”

  He potted the ball and felt vindicated. “You were saying?”

  “Did you remain long by the lake after the bombs went off?” she rephrased, watching as he missed and she was forced to have a turn. She made sure to be wide of the mark.

  “Not long. I can’t say exactly how long though. Malamtov collected his weapons, which had just been tossed to the ground. He was furious because they are valuable heirlooms. I helped him to clean them up; ruined a brand new silk handkerchief in the process. Then we shared a cigarette and I helped him carry them to his carriage. Duelling pistols are quite heavy and the boxes are even heavier.”

  “You left immediately after that?”

  He chalked his cue. “I couldn’t see the point of staying longer. The ball was over. It was better to leave it all to the troops to deal with.” He potted the next two balls and beamed triumphantly. “I sat in the carriage for a bit and waited for some of the carriages to clear out. The prince sat in his carriage too. He was closer to the gate. I thought he was going to leave but when he just sat and sat I ordered the coachman to go around him. The coach went wide and almost hit a lady who seemed to be lost.”

  “Did you see anything unusual in the carriage park?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean by unusual. I didn’t see the bomb man skulking around, though I did see the photographer; he had ditched his folding camera and was getting into one of the carriages.” He potted the last of the balls and tried to look modest.

  “Congratulations. Did you happen to notice which one?”

  “No, but as I was leaving I noticed the carriage was doing quite a bit of shaking, if you know what I mean.”

  “Do you recall where the carriage was parked?”

  “It was parked right next to Malamtov’s. Yes, now I remember it was the brougham belonging to that Valkyrie. But she wasn’t inside it. I can swear to that. She was down by the lake organizing a line of bucket boys. I could see her metallic helmet flashing gold as some of the spot fires were being put out.”

  “Is General de Merville still in the gun room?”

  “No, I believe he went down to the wine cellar with Malamtov to sample some Scotch. In fact, I might join them. Care to come?”

  She politely declined. She did not want to interview the general while he was in the company of others so she knocked on the door of Mrs Klein’s bedroom instead. A lady’s maid ushered her in. The celebrated Spanish beauty was sitting in a copper hip bath which had been placed in front of the fire. Her naked breasts glowed in the flickering firelight and her gorgeous dark hair fell wetly around her proud shoulders.

  “Come in, Countess Varvara. Make yourself comfortable in that armchair by the pie crust table. Dolores can serve you a glass of Madeira while we chat. I will have one too. I won’t bother to cover up. I can see you are not offended by the naked female form. Not like Miss Blague, who would be horrified to look at her own breasts. You want to know what I remember about the night of the ball. I’m afraid the night was a blur after those terrible bombs.”

  The Countess knew she would need to tread carefully. Isadora Klein was no fool. Flattery would be pointless and subtlety would get her nowhere. She needed to steer a gentle course between the two. “Mmm, a true vinho da roda; was it aged in an estufas?”

  “I see you know your wines, Countess. It has been distilled from one of the last batches of the vitis vinifera grapes to grow on the island of Madeira. Phylloxera wiped out the rest. The vines were ripped out and they grow cane sugar now. Times change but not always for the best. We have both seen off rich husbands. We have more in common than you know.”

  She soaped her voluptuous breasts while she spoke. The nipples stood out like bullets.

  “Did you know that a man was sitting in your carriage while you were organizing the brigade of bucketeers?”

  Isadora was sang-froid personified. “Poor thing! He was probably terrified and clambered into the first womb-like place he could find. Men are such babies, don’t you think?”

  “Quite.”

  “And such hopeless romantics too! Take our brooding host and that intense Irish colonel, two men who wear matching chips on their shoulders like badges of honour, one on the right and the other on the left – fighting a duel over a woman!”

  “I believe it was Miss Blague.”

  Isadora laughed breathily and it was like the sirocco, hot and sultry, reminiscent of the dry red Saharan dust that can turn tropical and stormy when met with a cold continental current of air. “Miss Blague is not for hot-blooded men. She will marry the Hon. Pugsy Setterfield and settle happily in Shropshire. I believe it was you they were duelling over. Please do not bother with an ingenuous denial. They could hardly keep their eyes off you at lunch. Some men not only make a virtue of poverty, they flaunt it. Of course, you are not interested – you do not wish to relinquish control of your fortune to a new husband - and that only encourages them all the more. Some men never tire of punishment. See, we have more in common than you think. What else do you want to know?”

  Was Mrs Klein implying they had the major and the colonel in common as well as widowhood and that she wished to humiliate them by toying with their affections? Or that Mrs Klein had not finished humiliating them and had more in store? Did the colonel suffer the same humiliation at the hands of the ruthless Queen of the Conquistadores as the major?

  “I believe it was you who suggested visiting the room with the shisha and the hookahs?”

  “Yes, I had sampled some shisha in Cairo and when I mentioned the hookahs to the American he seemed very excited. It was his idea to go straight up and the others seemed equally keen. Just like babies! I had promised the last dance to Pugsy and said I would join them as soon as I was free.”

  “You went to the wrong room?”

  “Yes, I was in a hurry because dear sweet Pugsy wanted to chat after our dance. I shamelessly brushed him off and raced up the stairs but when I got there the room was empty and I realized my mistake.”

  “You didn’t go to the other room?”


  “No, I bumped into the Princess of Wales who was going to get her cloak in preparation for the fireworks. I decided it was too late for shisha and collected my cloak as well.”

  “While you were in the foyer did you notice if there was a camera on the hall table?”

  Mrs Klein sipped her Madeira; it was the first time she had hesitated. “Yes, yes, I did, now you mention it. The studio photographer was coming down the stairs and he picked up the folding camera resting on the table and put it in the cupboard under the stairs. I remember at the time thinking it was an odd thing to do. That was the bomb wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, I believe so. After you organized the relay of buckets you disappeared somewhere but you didn’t leave. Your carriage was still in the carriage park. Can you remember where you went?”

  “I went to powder my nose. I spoke to a few people on my way out but I cannot recall any names now. It was all just a blur. I think I went straight home after that. Yes, yes, I did.”

  “The terrified man was no longer in your carriage?”

  “No, it was quite empty. He must have gathered up his courage or realized he was in the wrong carriage and fled before being discovered.”

  “Do you remember if Prince Sergei’s carriage was still there?”

  “No, I was very tired by then and I paid no attention to anything.”

  Prince Sergei was returning to his bedroom when the Countess spotted him. It was an opportune time to catch him alone before he took a nap or a bath. She knocked on his door and waited for his valet to open it.

  “Who is it, Ivanchyk?” called the prince, shrugging off his frock coat. “Ah, Countess Varvara, entrez-vous, s’il vous plait, enchanté.”

  She spotted the hip bath by the fire. “I hope I’m not holding you up from your banya?”

  “Not at all,” he assured, signalling for his valet to leave them. “Mr Blague said you were asking questions about the night of the ball. You want to speak to everyone, da? You are now an English detective, da?” He gave a hearty laugh as he offered her a Russian cigarette.

  She waited until he had lighted it for her and then waited some more while he lighted one for himself. They settled in armchairs either side of the copper bath.

  “What is it you wish to ask?” he prompted, enjoying that first deep inhalation.

  “When the duellists ran back to the pavilion you stayed in the wood with the American?”

  His distinguished face creased into an undistinguished scowl as he exhaled. “Da, the major and the colonel simply tossed the duelling pistols into the merde and fled. I was incensed. The trigger mechanisms on antique pistols are delicate, you understand, sensitive and delicate. One should treat them with respect, as one treats a beautiful woman.” He essayed a charming smile her way. “One does not toss them aside like a spent cigarette. Mr Blague helped me to clean them up and re-house them. He helped to carry one of the boxes back to my carriage.”

  “You did not return to the pavilion?”

  “Certainly not! The place was a madhouse. I could see all that from the wood. Bombs going off. Women screaming. Men rushing about like headless chooks. Mon Dieu! That Hispanic beauty was braver than all those Englishmen put together! True daughter of a hidalgo! I watched from my carriage as she rallied some weaklings to fill buckets with water from the lake. She whipped them into shape by sheer force of female will. You witnessed this too, da?”

  “Mrs Klein was certainly extraordinary.” She wondered if he’d already chosen his next wife as she blew a plume of tobacco smoke across the top of the bath and watched it merge with tendrils of steamy water vapour like two will-o-the-wisps entwining. “I believe Mr Blague left immediately. You did not follow?”

  “As I said, I watched from my carriage. The spectacle of the pavilion was more dramatic than the fireworks. It was not a wise time to leave anyway. Blague’s horses threatened to bolt. His coachman did his best to keep them steady. He almost knocked over a lady looking for her carriage. The other horses were spooked by the loud noises, pawing the ground and stamping their feet. Coachmen were struggling to calm their steeds. I lit a cigarette and thought to myself it was like watching a war from the side-lines.”

  “While you were watching, did you see a man enter Mrs Klein’s carriage? I believe her brougham was parked alongside your coach.”

  He had the habit of sweeping back his silver mane at regular intervals; it seemed to be an unconscious gesture not related to preening. “Her coach was parked alongside but it was on the other side, not facing the pavilion I mean, and her curtains were closed. I saw a man running away from the pavilion but I paid no attention to where he went. I was watching the spectacle. If he leapt into her carriage I’m not surprised. He might have been looking for a place to hide. Some men who have been to war are easily frightened by fireworks. It reminds them of cannons and death.”

  She flicked some ash into the fireplace and the conversation shifted to mutual friends and acquaintances in Ukraine and Russia, and then to the untimely demise of Princess Paraskovia.

  “The birchwood is an inspired resting place, very peaceful and symbolic, a perfect choice. I visited the graveside again when I paid a visit to the Earl of Winchester the other day.”

  “Da,” he agreed, flicking his cigarette into the fire. “A perfect resting place for the princess but I did not choose it. It was suggested to me by Mr Holmes.”

  She flicked her cigarette into the fire to hide her surprise. “A man for all seasons,” she mused, smiling gently. “The birchwood reminds me of our homeland. There is a dacha on the other side of the lake. You can just glimpse it through the trees. Did you notice it?”

  He stared at the water in the bath as if staring into the abyss. “No, I did not notice it. Is there anything else? The bathwater grows cold.”

  She took the hint. “Yes, of course, just one last question. Did anyone join you in your carriage as you watched the spectacle?”

  “No,” he said, ushering her to the door. “No one joined me.”

  Mycroft was waiting for her in her bedroom. “Making any progress?”

  Yes, she thought ruefully, but not the sort she was hoping for. “Not really,” she lied.

  He shrugged his rounded shoulders as he handed her a small gift. “This is for you, happy birthday, my dear.”

  She tore away some tissue paper to find a stunning trezyb hat pin studded with diamonds. “This looks bespoke? Who designed it?”

  “It was made to my own design. I hope you like it.”

  “How could I not like the trezyb! It’s beautiful! Simply beautiful! Thank you so much.”

  She was giving him a kiss on the cheek when the silhouette of a man framed in the connecting door caught Mycroft’s eye.

  “Come in, Nash,” he said. “Did you want to speak to me?”

  The brooding major looked sheepishly at his boss. “Yes, sir, but it can keep.”

  “There is no keeping a secret from the Countess, Nash. You will learn that soon enough if you haven’t already discovered it for yourself. What is it? Nothing serious I hope.”

  “General de Merville has over-indulged, sir. He is looking seedy and has been put to bed by his daughter. Dr Watson advised that he be left to sleep off the effects of too much whiskey even if it means missing out on his dinner.”

  For a heavy-set man, Mycroft moved with surprising suppleness. “I’ll look in on him on my way down to the great hall. I promised Damery a game of chess before dinner.”

  Major Nash waited until the door closed.

  “Why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?”

  “I thought you knew.”

  “Why would you think that?’

  “I thought you knew everything.”

  He gave a self-deprecating laugh as he turned to go. “So did I.”

  Her voice stopped him before he reached the door. “Does Mycroft know you slept with the princess?”

  He didn’t bother turning around. “I never said I did.”

  W
hen faced with a brick wall it was always wise to change direction. “The humiliating episode with Mrs Klein,” she reminded, “did a similar humiliation happen to Colonel Moriarty?”

  He turned now, and there was a flash of anger in the sky-blue eyes, like a summer storm about to break, but virtuous self-control won the day. “Yes, what of it?”

  “I’m wondering if Mrs Klein considers the episodes finished.”

  He smiled wryly and relaxed his shoulders. “A true sadist is never finished. There is always one more turn of the screw. You’ve read history. The Conquistadores spread typhus, influenza, smallpox, malaria and yellow fever to the natives. And one of their forebears is still spreading it. Some people are the disease.”

  She noted the vehemence infecting his carefully modulated tone. “You cannot allow the past to skew your view. You need to remain brutally objective or we will never nail Mycroft’s assassin. It’s almost time to dress for dinner and we are no closer to finding who set those bombs than when we started.”

  “I am being brutally objective,” he argued, with an emphasis on the brutal part, “and as much as I would like to pin the bombs on the woman I love to hate there is no way she is behind them. The last person on earth to ever gain membership of the Diogenes Club will be a woman. No woman will ever be primus baro.”

  16

  Diogenes

  It rankled that Major Nash was right. No woman would ever step through the doors of the Diogenes Club unless she denied her sex and turned herself into a man.

  “Did you learn anything new today?” she put to him as she picked up the trezyb and tried not to dwell on the unfairness of being born female.

  He watched the diamonds catch the light as she twirled her new hat pin round and round between her fingers. “You mean apart from the fact your birthday coincides with epiphany, Mr Dixie and Sherlock Holmes are wearing woeful disguises, Miss Mona Blague is not as innocent as she seems, Miss de Merville cheats at whist, Mr Bruce Blague is looking for a son-in-law to help run his cigar empire, Isadora Klein threatens to visit my bed tonight, Damery wears insteps in his shoes, Prince Sergei Ilych Ivanovich Malamtov wears a stomacher, and General de Merville cannot hold his liquor, then no. What did you call that thing?”