by Anna Lord
“He’s still sleeping. There will be a game of tennis after breakfast.”
“There’s no tennis court – I have explored the grounds. Do you mean croquet?”
“There’s a Tudor tennis court on the top floor. Mycroft’s not playing but he may come to watch.”
“Ah, good, good, a good time to check his room. Leave your door open, and window too, in the event I need to make a quick exit. There’s a drain pipe which may come in handy. Did anything out of the ordinary happen last night?”
“Not really. I slept like a log after that astute comment from Colonel Moriarty. Fedir and Xenia kept watch. They are now sleeping soundly in my boudoir and dressing room; best to avoid those rooms when you break in. Xenia said Miss Blague went to Major Nash’s room in the night. She’s still there. Prince Sergei went to Mrs Klein’s room. He stayed for over an hour. Colonel Moriarty didn’t leave his room all night. Neither did Damery or Blague. Miss de Merville checked on her father twice during the night –”
“Wait! Why did she do that?”
“He drank too much whiskey yesterday and fell ill. He’s been having nightmares since the bombs went off. She’s worried about him.”
“Ah, yes, proceed.”
“That’s it really.”
“What about Major Nash?”
“I presume he was with Miss Blague.”
“Never presume anything.” He looked past her shoulder. “Ah, here comes Watson. Anything to report, old friend?”
“Not really. I fell asleep soon after midnight. I knew Xenia and Fedir were keeping watch inside, and you and Mr Dixie were doing the same outside, so I didn’t think there was any need for me to be up too. Something woke me around five o’clock this morning. I had a quick peek out my bedroom door and saw Major Nash coming out of Mrs Klein’s bedroom. That’s about it.”
The Countess reeled back. “Are you sure?”
“Quite. The odd thing is, up until last night I could have sworn he’d been giving her the cold shoulder, but after you went to bed early, and Miss de Merville and Miss Blague followed, he started paying the Spanish donna a lot of attention. Prince Sergei was livid with jealousy but Major Nash must be one of the handsomest men in England; impossible for the ladies to resist when he turns on the charm, I’d say.”
The Countess felt herself go hot and cold then hot again. “But Miss Blague was in his room all night and is still there by all accounts.”
“Well, that just proves my point. The major must have gone from the American to the Spaniard and back to the American. I wonder if he’ll still have the stamina for tennis. Lucky you’re no longer partnering him. I think Miss de Merville and I stand a good chance of winning. She plays lawn tennis regularly and I don’t wish to blow my own trumpet but I was a championship player in my schooldays before rugby won out.”
Sherlock slapped his friend heartily on the back. “I wish I could come to cheer you on, Watson, but if your tennis is half as good as your rugby you have the prize in the bag!” He turned to his daughter. “Who are you partnering?”
“Colonel Moriarty.”
“Hmm, if he can keep his Irish temper in check you might provide some decent competition for Watson and co.”
It was too early for breakfast so she decided to make a quick promenade around the house to cool her heels. She pulled her fur-trimmed dolman coat closer and reached the corner of the stable-yard where she bumped into Mr Dixie loitering by the carriage house. He jumped with fright when she came up behind him.
“Shhh,” he warned, gesturing for her to double back to the stable where they joined Sherlock and Dr Watson, still in conversation.
“What is it, Mr Dixie?” she prompted. “What were you looking at?”
He lowered his deep southern drawl to an ominous drone. “I reckon the men who came on the back of the last carriage is from Barney’s gang. They is dressed different, wif false beards and curly wigs, but I reckon they is Larry the Lurker and Thumper.”
Sherlock had been adjusting the time on the clock that sat snugly on his mechanical arm but straightened up at the mention of the names. “Do you mean the Barney Stockdale gang?”
“Yes, Masser Holmes, that’s what I mean.”
Sherlock decided to translate for the benefit of the others. “Mr Dixie thinks the two liveried footmen who arrived yesterday on the back of the carriage belonging to Mrs Klein may be members of the criminal fraternity led by Barney Stockdale, a nasty bunch of thugs for hire who break bones, dislocate limbs, intimidate witnesses and inflict punishment for a price.”
Dr Watson felt simultaneously alarmed and unconvinced. “You’re not suggesting Mrs Klein knowingly hired two criminals? No, no, the men must have left the gang and gained employment as body-guards. Mrs Klein is a rich woman. She has need of protection. Let’s not forget she owns the Turkish Baths. I heard there was a brawl there the other day. Two men were evicted. It is perfectly understandable for a wealthy businesswoman to employ strong-arm men, especially when travelling long distances in the countryside.”
Sherlock continued to play around with the clock hands. “Mrs Klein is a subtle woman. I doubt she would hire two thugs to beat Mycroft to a pulp. Nevertheless, we will need to keep an eye on them. Best if I handle it. Best for you to stay out of sight, Mr Dixie. Best for us to disperse now. The household is stirring. The game’s afoot.”
18
Game, Set, Match
Isadora Klein had receded into the background, not a natural position for a celebrated beauty who courted controversy. It was time to shine a spotlight on the dark queen.
Countess Volodymyrovna instructed Xenia to search Mrs Klein’s bedroom during the tennis game. Likewise, Fedir would search Prince Sergei’s room. There was something about the dalliance between the Conquistador queen and the Russian prince that hinted at intimacy beyond the usual animal attraction.
She needed to speak to Damery again about what he saw in the carriage park now that she knew Mrs Klein employed two liveried footmen of dubious repute. But it would be impossible to speak frankly in the breakfast room so she knocked on his door, though it was unprecedented for a woman to enter a gentleman’s bedroom so early in the day. He was wearing a paisley silk dressing gown over paisley silk pyjamas. A valet was preparing his clothes, laying them out on the bed. She apologized for the intrusion and he waved away the servant, telling him to return in fifteen minutes.
“I gather you wish to speak privately?” he said diplomatically, indicating a comfortable chair by the fire.
“Yes, I was wondering, since you were possibly the last person to leave the carriage park on the night of the ball, if you saw when Mrs Klein returned to her brougham?”
He concentrated on lighting a cigarette, which she declined, so he smoked it himself.
“Yes, I did.”
“Was a man waiting for her inside her carriage?”
Damery appeared amused. “No.”
The Countess felt momentarily confused because she expected the answer to be ‘yes’. “Are you sure?’ she pressed.
“Quite sure,” he said silkily. “I don’t think it will hurt her reputation any but she didn’t get into her own carriage right away.”
Confusion cleared in an instant. “Oh, I see, she got into the carriage of Prince Sergei.”
“Yes.”
“That’s why his curtains were drawn the second time.”
“Second time?”
“Never mind. There was a man seen in her carriage much earlier. Did you see when he left? Did you see where he went?”
“There was man in her carriage, as you say, earlier on, around the time of the fireworks, but her burly footmen soon sorted him out. I didn’t see what happened to him.”
“After she finished in Prince Sergei’s carriage did she return to the pavilion?”
“No, she hopped into her own brougham, but I think her coachman was drunk. He made a huge circuit of the park, pausing every now and again as if he was lost or confused. She got out to re
primand him which I thought was most unfair considering the bombs must have upset a lot of people. The poor chap made another circuit then finally found the gates and left.”
“Prince Sergei was still there?”
“No, he went straight away, as soon as she hopped out.”
“Thank you, Sir Damery, you’ve been very helpful.”
Major Nash was waiting for her in her bedroom. “You’ve been busy this morning. I tried to track you down several times. How did you sleep?”
“Better than you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You were busy last night – Miss Blague and Isadora Klein.”
“Oh,” he said before recovering his equanimity. “You sound jealous.”
“I hope you didn’t catch a disease,” she parried facetiously, “from the woman you love to hate,” she added caustically to cover the fact she was jealous. Why, oh, why, Isadora Klein? If it had been Violet de Merville she would have been happy for him.
“What can I say? I’m a sucker for punishment. I like blondes and sadists.”
“Then you’re in for a treat. Colonel Moriarty and I will show no mercy. We will wipe the court with you and Miss Mona Blague.”
Unconcerned, he began striding to the door. “I don’t doubt it.”
“What?”
“Miss Blague is just waking up now. I had a feeling she might storm my room last night so I prepared some defences. I plied her with French champagne. She passed out and slept all night. Her hymen is still intact but her head exploded just after midnight. I fear our game will suffer.”
The Countess tried not to smile. Mona Blague was all her fault and the outcome could have been far worse in the hands of a man less scrupulous. “And Isadora Klein?”
“Is none of your concern.”
Everyone gathered on the ‘tennys-play’ at eleven o’clock. The rules were simplified in the interests of those not familiar with the game. Sir Damery and Mr Blague agreed to jointly referee. Mycroft said he had a few things to take care of and would join them later. Miss Blague, determined not to disappoint her partner any more than she did last night by imbibing too much champagne and passing out, soldiered on magnificently.
Nevertheless, Major Nash and Miss Blague were the first to be eliminated. They were followed quickly by Prince Sergei and Mrs Klein. The final match was a hard fought duel but Miss de Merville was an exemplary player and Dr Watson’s service was second to none.
Hearty congratulations were offered to the winners and everyone was enjoying a round of thirst-quenching drinks when the Countess noticed Major Nash and Mrs Klein were absent. The thought that they might be having another assignation did not worry her as much as the thought that if they went to Mrs Klein’s bedroom they might walk in on Xenia.
Busy concentrating on the game, the Countess had failed to notice when the pair slipped out. She was halfway down the main stairs leading to the great hall when a small but loud explosion stopped her in her tracks. The noise came from the vicinity of the front porch.
Panic-stricken shouting ensued. It echoed through the big house, shattering the normal tranquillity where the only sound to disturb the peace and quiet – now the tennis game was over - was the tick-tock of the antique clocks. Screams were suddenly punctuated by monstrous growls – “Get back! Get back! Look out!” - and baffled rejoinders from upstairs – “What the hell is going on? What on earth was that? Good God! I’ve never heard anything like it!”
Colonel Moriarty hurtling pell-mell, passed her on the stairs, revolver poised to blast whatever it was that was on the porch. He’d heard that exploding noise before and knew exactly what it was. An adrenaline rush propelled her forward and she was right behind him when he threw open the front door and pumped three bullets into a massive beast that made the ghastly, luminous-jawed, Baskerville hound look like a playful puppy.
Rabid white foam bubbling around the dog’s muzzle explained the frenzied state the beast was in. White froth coated Sherlock’s limp mechanical arm as he supported it using his right hand; sharp canines had to be prized off his special boot after the dog collapsed on its side and whimpered for the last time.
Mycroft was lying on the ground, arm raised as if to protect himself though the beast was now dead. The elder sibling’s brain hadn’t caught up with reality and it showed in every fibre of his being – the terror-stricken stare, the desperate panting, the dry mouth and the bloodless pallor. Only slowly did it dawn on him that he had survived a second deadly dog attack and that once again he had the colonel to thank, though this time huge credit had to go to the younger Holmes as well.
The arrival of the other house-guests, breathless and confused, forestalled any discussion about what had really taken place.
Sherlock slinked back to the stable before the Irishman recognized him, leaving Colonel Moriarty and the Countess to help Mycroft to his feet. He was still badly shaken and unable to field the barrage of questions: What happened? Where did the dog come from? What’s all that white froth?
He promised to explain everything over lunch in one hour.
Major Nash arrived last of all, shirt rumpled and hair mussed. He looked flushed and angry as he exchanged fleeting eye-contact with the colonel, grabbed hold of Mycroft’s elbow and ushered him inside.
“I’m all right, Nash,” grumbled the elder. “Let go my arm. I can walk. I’m not an invalid. No harm done.”
The men headed straight for the drinks trolley while the ladies went to have a sponge bath and change out of their perspiration-soaked sporting ensembles. After a stiff brandy or two, Mycroft found the strength to mount the stairs without his jelly legs turning to water.
Conspicuous by absence was Mrs Klein. The only conclusion one could draw was that her state of undress when the attack happened was even greater than the major’s.
The Countess followed the ladies up the main stairs then veered toward the back stairs and hurried to the stable.
Perched on a hay bale, Sherlock was inspecting the tooth marks in his badly mauled boot. “Lucky I strapped all those leather bits around it, though the boot is ruined. I have a spare at home but I didn’t think to pack it. Still, it did the job admirably, especially the steel-capped toe.”
His mechanical arm was much the same. He had strapped it with some hardy leather from an old saddle. The dog had shredded the tough hide and the mechanics were ruined but his withered arm had managed to remain in one piece.
“But how did you know?” pressed the Countess, awestruck by her father’s composure and prescience. Everyone else, including her, was still shuddering and still baffled.
“How did I know there would be another dog attack?”
“Put simply, yes.”
“I thought long and hard about that conversation we had this morning regarding effect. The next attack, like the others, had to send a message to those who understood about Diogenes - the philosopher and the club. I actually expected an attack by some wild beast in accord with the philosopher’s death-wish. I thought it might be a wolf or wild boar or even some sort of jungle cat. Noblemen often keep wild animals in a private zoo and there are plenty of travelling circuses. It would not have been difficult to steal one of the poor beasts, starve it, treat it cruelly, and wait for the right moment to unleash it on the chosen victim.
“But the timing? How could anyone time an attack to coincide with Mycroft stepping onto the front porch?”
Sherlock paused momentarily from unstrapping the foam-slobbered leather strips wrapped around his arm, glanced up at his daughter, inviting her with his eyes to answer her own query.
She took up the challenge. “Hmm, whoever was behind the dog attack must have sent Mycroft a note: Meet me on the front porch during the tennis game…I know who the bomb man is…come alone…or some such thing. Mycroft is no position to decline. He has no time to discuss it with his ADC. He goes out to the porch and voila! The rabid dog comes bounding around the corner. But the killer doesn’t take into account the ditherin
g stable-hand being on hand to leap into the fray.” Smiling broadly, she shook her head with happy disbelief. “That gimpy arm and gammy leg just saved your brother’s life.”
Sherlock chuckled. “If anyone else had said that I might have taken offence but coming from you it sounds like a compliment. Ah, here’s Watson, looking concerned for my welfare. Did you hear what she said, old friend? Gimpy arm and gammy leg!” he laughed uproariously.
Dr Watson laughed too, but it was laughter spurred by delayed relief. He agreed the explanation she proffered a second time for his benefit made good sense. “But where was the dog kept?”
“The answer is obviously not too far from here,” replied Sherlock. “Mr Dixie and I scoured the outbuildings when we arrived and none was being used to house anything but garden implements, broken furniture and farm equipment, but there are numerous cottages on the estate. Not all have been renovated. It would not have been difficult to kennel the dog until required. A lackey could have brought the dog over, muzzled until ready to unleash. I’d say the two dogs were infected with rabies together. The breed is the same. They were both trained to attack Mycroft. There may be others.”
The trio looked nervously over their shoulders and froze at the sound of footsteps.
Mr Dixie had just completed an exploration of the stable-yard. “All is quiet, Masser Holmes” he reported, looking queerly at the limp arm. “Larry the Lurker and Thumper is having a game of cards in back of the carriage house. The ostler and the stable boys are seeing to the dead dog. Major Nash told them to bury it behind the wall of the kitchen garden in the apple orchard.”
Dr Watson nibbled his lip and frowned. “I don’t wish to cast aspersions on our host, I cannot fault him for hospitality and courtesy, but he disappeared halfway through the final game of tennis.”
Plucking the shattered clock out of his mechanical arm, which he had just spent considerable time repairing; Sherlock looked up with an unhappy scowl. “You think Major Nash may have given the signal for the dog to be unleashed?”