In a tent toward the rear of the meadow a small group of people stood in rapt attention. They had never witnessed anything quite like this before. A small sign on the tent door read: DR.
ALEXANDRE SANDAREL—ASK AND YOU SHALL BE TOLD. And the telling went on throughout the day. Professor Moriarty, in his guise as Doctor Alexandre Sandarel, wearing a black, fur-trimmed frock coat with wide lapels, that emphasized his height; his chest crossed with a red sash that emphasized his importance, stood on a platform in the middle of the tent gazing down at his audience with eyes that, as one onlooker put it, "seemed to burn into your very soul." On a tripod stand by his side was a brass brazier about a foot and a half across, holding a small heap of glowing coals.
Madeleine Verlaine, in a pearl-colored gown that emphasized what it was meant to emphasize, handed each member of the audience a piece of paper, a pencil, and a small white envelope as he or she entered. "If you have a question for the doctor," she whispered, "write it down and seal it in the envelope." Periodically she collected the envelopes and brought them up to Sandarel on a silver tray.
Sandarel took a sealed envelope from the tray and held it up. "The young gentleman by the door, in the brown leather coat," he said. "This is from you, I believe."
"And what was my question?" the youth by the door challenged.
Sandarel thrust the envelope into the brazier and it burst into flames. He studied the rising smoke intently. "Yours is the oldest of questions," he said. "You want to know if she loves you—although you put it in earthier terms."
One man in the audience chuckled, and looked around to see if anyone else had gotten the joke.
"The answer to your question," Sandarel continued, "is in two parts: the first is 'yes,' and the second is," and here he shook a finger at the man, "not a chance, and you should know better than to ask—not until you get married!"
Most of the audience laughed nervously, several of them merely looked shocked.
Sandarel picked up a new envelope and ran his fingers over its surface. "From a young lady," he said. "Her name is Susanna, I believe. Are you here, Susanna? I won't embarrass you."
An attractive blond girl of perhaps sixteen in an aubergine chemise with a large bow in back and an abundance of lace trim raised her hand shyly.
"Ah, there you are," Sandarel said. "Let us send your question into the sky, and see what answer we can pluck out of the space between this world and the next." He dropped the envelope into the fire and it burst brightly into flames and was quickly devoured. "There, it's gone," he said. "And now no one can ever know what you wrote. But nonetheless let's see if I can get an answer to your question." He put his hand to his forehead and stared at the rising smoke.
"You want to know where someone—we won't mention his name—is right now. But wait! That's not what you really desire to know. You desire to know whether he loves you, whether he is being faithful to you. And let me reassure you, the smoke says yes. He is thinking of you even now as I speak."
With that the girl burst into tears and fled the tent.
The audience murmured amongst themselves. They were impressed with what they were seeing, but weren't sure of what to make of it. One old man backed out of the tent, making the sign of the cross in the air with his right forefinger, but nobody else seemed inclined to follow him.
Sandarel retrieved another envelope and studied it briefly and then tossed it onto the flames. "I will not identify the writer of this note by name, nor will I look at him directly, for I don't want to embarrass him," he said, his deep voice resonating throughout the tent. "But I am now going to tell him more than he wanted to know." Sandarel's gaze swept the audience. "Put back what you took right now and confess all. Those you have wronged will forgive you. Make restitution for what you cannot return. You know in your heart that this is what you should—what you must—do. If you continue down the path on which you have started, you will find nothing but ruin and heartbreak."
A gasp ran through the crowd, and they all looked around to see if they could tell who the writer was and guess just what he had written.
Sandarel picked up the next envelope.
-
It was now three in the afternoon of Friday, 18 April 1891. Outside the gates of Schloss Uhm the Festival of St. Simon was doing its raucous best to outdo all previous festivals. At the same time, in a private dining room of the castle, guarded by a phalanx of Graf von Linsz's private guards distributed about the halls and corridors, the officers of the New Order of the Knights of Wotan held their yearly meeting; this one, they knew, would be the most important meeting they had held since the founding of the order a dozen years before.
There were twenty-six people gathered around the dark walnut dining room table. Nine were high ranking officers in the armies of either Austria or Germany. Seven were of the European aristocracy (there was an overlap here, four of the officers were of noble birth). Three were ordained priests. Six were bureaucrats or elected officials: three Austrian, two German, and one French. Five were what the popular press was beginning to describe as "captains of industry": two armaments manufacturers, one owner of coal mines and newspapers, one textile manufacturer, and one exploiter of labor in the far-off colonies of various European countries.
There were also two trusted waiters to see to the needs of the order, and, squeezed into the bottom cupboard of an ancient oak sideboard where she had been hiding for several hours before the meeting began, was an operatic contralto named Jenny Vernet.
The large, throne-like chair at the head of the table was occupied by "Der Alte," (the Old Man), Herzog Robert Franz Willem von und zu Agberg, one of the co-founders of the New Order of the Knights of Wotan, and the highest-born of the membership since the other co-founder, Prince Meinhess, was killed recently in an unfortunate accident while boar hunting in the Black Forest. Der Alte, now well into his eighties, was the final arbiter of the customs and procedures of the order. He did not overly concern himself with what the order actually did, except to nod his approval whenever it was called for, but he was stern about their adherence to the ancient rules of Teutonic knighthood while they were doing it.
Graf von Linsz, who sat on Der Alte's right hand, chaired the meeting, calling it to order and nodding at each member to give him permission to speak. Each member got up in turn, began speaking with a ritualistic, "May it please the order ..." and then told what he had been doing "on the order's business" for the past year. And much of what was said did please the order, judging by the appreciative murmurs Jenny overheard from her hiding place.
Jenny Vernet's cramped and uncomfortable presence in the sideboard was an act born of frustration. For the past few weeks she had been trying to convince von Linsz, not that she was on his side because the count didn't really care whether a mere woman was on his side or not, but that she was not interested in men's politics—and that she considered all of his mysterious shenanigans, including the kidnaping of the Barnetts, some form of politics that concerned only men and didn't concern her. But all she'd managed to get out of him were hints and threats and vague references that something big was on its way.
But now, at last, as she lay concealed, she was learning something more than hints.
"Now on to the most important affair," she heard von Linsz say. His usually dry and raspy voice had an undertone of excitement she had rarely heard before. "The event for which we have planned takes place next week. Probably next Thursday. The principals, we are assured, will be arriving. England, France, Germany, and Russia. And, of course, Austria. Everything is in place. The capture, the threat, the killing. It cannot fail to have the desired effect."
"And who gets the blame?" a voice asked. Jenny thought it was the textile man, but she wasn't sure. "Has it been decided?"
"Of course. The people are picked, letters have been written."
"But who?"
"Serbian nationalists. Specifically a group called 'Free Serbia.' "
"Serbian nationalists," someone said musingl
y. "I like it! Austria will mobilize to send troops into Serbia, just to keep the peace, of course."
"And then Russia will mobilize," someone said. "The tsar will come to Serbia's aid."
"Even after—?"
"Those who want to blame Serbia, will blame the Serbian nationalists," the voice said. "Those who don't, will blame the Austrian Army for the aftermath. And Imperial Russia feels that it has blood ties with Serbia."
"Ah! Of course. And Germany will come in on the side of Austria. And France on the side of Russia."
"France and Russia are not allies," someone said.
"Yes, but after 1870, France will welcome any excuse to go to war with Germany."
"True."
Jenny felt the need to sneeze coming over her. She gritted her teeth and held her nose, and felt her eyes water, but she fought off the sneeze.
"We must be prepared to nudge, to whisper, to demand," one of them was saying.
"My newspapers are ready."
"Think of it!" It was von Linsz. "A general European war. Chaos and the destruction of governments." His voice rose. "And out of the ashes of this war shall rise a new order! Led by the Knights of Wotan, the German people shall take their rightful place in the world."
There was the scraping sound of chairs being pulled back, and then a voice rang out: "To Greater Germany!"
"Greater Germany!" came the response.
"Wotan!"
"Wotan!"
Jenny fought back her sneeze as the group filed out of the room. A silence descended, and she was about to crawl out of her hiding place, when she heard another door open.
"You heard?" It was von Linsz.
"I heard."
A new voice.
"You arrived with no trouble, Highness?"
"Trouble? Wha-what sort of troub-trouble?"
"If you were recognized—"
"Bah! A slight alteration of facial hair. They see only what they expect to see. They d-do not expect to see me, and therefore I am not here."
"You do me a great honor in coming, Most Highborn—"
"Hush! Not here, and not from you. The mistaken belief that one man is b-better than another because of his birth, or his position in society that was d-determined before he was born, is for soft-headed fools. We may make use of it, but we must not ourselves believe it. There are too many examples of empires that have crumbled because a wise and forceful ruler was followed by a dunce or a dimwit who happened to be his son."
"But, you yourself, Most—"
"As I say—I am able and I am highborn. I also have brown hair and a bad temper and a se-slight tendency to stammer. Which of these did my highborn parents pass on to me? Nothing that ten thousand lowborn children don't share. That is the reason why I, of all people, must constantly remind myself of the truth that ability does not necessarily follow birth."
"If you say so, Highness."
"Indeed, the accident of my birth put me in position where I could achieve what must be achieved, and the, I must call it, accident of my being b-born possessed of outstanding abilities of planning and leadership have enabled me to forge this union of impossible-to-be-united groups."
"Who do not even know that they are united," von Linsz interrupted.
"Even so. That was, you will admit, the masterstroke."
"It was. And you are the master."
Jenny sneezed.
There were hurried footsteps, and the cupboard door was pulled open. "What are you doing in there?" von Linsz barked.
Jenny looked up, her eyes blinking in the light. "Looking for a fish knife," she told him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE — GOOD-BYE TO ALL THAT
Ah God, for a man with heart, head, hand,
Like some of the simple great ones gone
For ever and ever by.
One still strong man in a blatant land,
Whatever they call him, what care I,
Aristocrat, democrat, autocrat—one
Who can rule and dare not lie.
And ah for a man to arise in me,
That the man I am may cease to be!
— Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Swinging his stick aggressively in front of him, Holmes strode briskly down the street in the direction of Schloss Uhm, with Watson trotting behind. They bypassed the first inn they came to, a bright, well-scrubbed establishment that was so close to the train station that Holmes surmised it must cater to travelers, and went on. A quarter mile further they reached the Albrecht in Himmel, a fine, ancient whitewashed building with a slate roof and a wooden sign, freshly painted with the image of a chubby angel gazing down from a cloud. Holmes peered over the thick wooden half-door and decided that it had a local trade, and they went in. There they received permission to leave their traveling bags, stood the innkeeper to a drink, and learned that a blond woman named Fraulein Vernet had been seen staying at Schloss Uhm with Graf von Linsz for the past few weeks. Not merely seen, but heard, for the lady was an opera singer, and she had been prevailed upon to give a recital of Schubert's Lieder at the church hall. Her rendition of "Der Tod und das Mädchen" had been particularly memorable, said the innkeeper.
"I imagine," Holmes told him.
When they asked about a bed, the innkeeper shook his head. He knew of none available unless they wanted to share a great trundle bed with his nephews: "Great strapping lads, they are, and what with the festival they probably won't be getting to bed until midnight, perhaps later." Holmes and Watson decided to forgo the pleasure. They headed for the great meadow in front of the castle on which the various tents, booths, and festivities were strewn.
It was early evening and they had been wandering around the meadow for a couple of hours, when Watson caught up with Holmes and found him frozen into immobility, staring through the open door into one of the tents. He poked the great detective on the shoulder. "What is it, Holmes?"
"Look at that man on the platform," Holmes said, pointing with his stick, "do we know him?"
"Dr., ah, Alexandre Sandarel? That's what it says on his little sign. What is he, some sort of charlatan?" Watson peered into the tent. "No, Holmes, I can't say I recognize him. The beard looks familiar."
"I fancy that if you were to pull it, it would come off," Holmes remarked. "No, no, Watson, try to look beneath the beard."
Watson stared intently for a few seconds. "Sorry, Holmes, he means nothing to me."
"Ah, Watson," Holmes said with a sigh, "you see, but you do not observe. Or, in this case, hear. Does not his voice sound familiar to you?"
"Well, Holmes," Watson told him with a slight air of petulance, "you said nothing about listening to him." He stepped closer to the tent flap and cocked an ear.
"Imagine him speaking English instead of German," Holmes offered.
After a minute Watson nodded. "I say," he said. "I believe I have heard that voice before. Rich and full, resonant, dramatic, precise pronunciation. Could it have been on the music hall stage?"
"Sandarel," in the meantime, had noticed the two of them standing by the tent flap. He motioned for Madeleine to take his place on the stage, and went over to them. "Sherlock Holmes, I believe!" he said in English. "Dr. Watson! This is an unexpected— ah—meeting. But I am never surprised when you turn up, like the proverbial penny."
"Well I'll be dashed!" Watson exclaimed. "It's Professor Moriarty!"
Holmes pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Even before I saw you I should have known you would be here," he said. "She wrote that the Barnetts were prisoners here, so it should have come as no surprise that you had come after them. A leader, even a criminal leader, cannot afford to be disloyal to his troops."
"And yet so many are," Moriarty said. "Who?"
"Who?" Holmes frowned. "Who what?"
"Who told you the Barnetts were here?"
"Ah! A young lady named Jenny Vernet; an opera singer who is apparently another guest of that household. She does not seem to be an actual prisoner, since she has been seen in public, but how free her movements
are is open to question. You are presumably here to effectuate the release of Mr. and Mrs. Barnett; whereas I have arrived here to ascertain the status of Miss Vernet and rescue her if need be. And if possible to discover just what is going on and why. Incidently, I've been standing here listening to your billet readings for awhile. I must say, Moriarty, the stage lost a fine performer when you chose to become a master criminal."
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