by Anna Lord
Anxious to get on with transferring their luggage before rain set in, our two sleuths walked quickly down the rocky steps to the point where the path curved, then paused and looked back to see how the men were faring with the broken sign. The sign had been taken down and the two men had disappeared back inside the hotel.
A woman wearing a black peignoir was now standing on the balcony that opened out from the topmost room in the tallest tower. Long black hair was blowing back from her face as she faced toward the open sea. The blown-back hair was held aloft by the wind, giving it the appearance of the plumage of a bird in flight, wings extended, effortlessly riding the thermals - not a common rook or an old crow, but a black eagle, glorious and majestic…l’aigle noire.
2
Princess Roskovsky
Plage Miramar ran into the Grande Plage and finished at the pretty Port des Pecheurs. Along one side unfurled a path like a silk ribbon - the Quai de la Grande Plage Allée – which was the promenade of choice for those who wished to be seen since it skirted right past the Belle Epoque edifice known to all and sundry as the Hotel du Palais.
Dr Watson and Countess Volodymyrovna had decided to work off their crepes and beat the storm by walking to the Port des Pecheurs straight after lunch rather than returning to the Hotel Louve to see how Fedir and Xenia were faring with the luggage when they bumped into an acquaintance of the Countess, or rather an old acquaintance of her late step-aunt. It was the Princess Roskovsky.
The frail, white-haired, old lady, who looked as fragile as a flower, was on her way to the Eglise Orthodox on the rue de russie just behind the Hotel du Palais to light a candle for her long deceased son when she immediately latched onto the arm of the Countess like a barnacle and beseeched her to accompany her so that she could catch up on all the latest news concerning the step-child of her dear departed friend, Countess Zoya Volodymyrovna.
Dr Watson, hiding his disappointment rather badly, continued the promenade to the Port des Pecheurs alone.
The two women walked arm in arm, chatting about the tragic death of dear Countess Zoya, bitten by a tiger snake in Australia and buried so far from her Ukrainian homeland before moving on to the Countess’s short-lived marriage to an Australian who took his own life after a tragic horse-riding accident that left him crippled.
Russians loved nothing more than a rich tragedy and the old Princess was in maudlin heaven with her shuddering sighs. After they had said a silent prayer and lit a candle for Prince Dmitri and several dozen dear departed souls, they decamped to the nearest Viennese coffee shop where the Countess decided to lighten the tone.
“What can you tell me about Prince Orczy?”
Princess Roskovsky’s barely-there blonde eyebrows registered her surprise. “Are you searching for a new husband?”
The Countess laughed. “Certainly not!”
“Then why the interest in Orczy?”
“He is staying at the same hotel and I just wondered about his background.”
“Are you not staying at the Hotel du Palais?”
“No, I checked out this morning. I moved into the Hotel Louve.”
The Princess gave a shocked gasp. “You are not serious?”
“Yes, quite, why do you ask?”
“It has a certain reputation.”
“Reputation?”
“Hardly any women stay there, by that I mean none that would be welcomed into decent society, and it attracts the most - how shall I put it? - radical men.”
The Countess was intrigued. “Radical?”
“Men of dubious character, men who flaunt convention, men who tear up social rules and then proceed to rewrite them to suit themselves as if none of it matters, men like Anton Orczy. He is Montenegrin, related to several royal families on his mother’s side - a black sheep, no, worse, a wolf in sheep’s clothing; they say he killed a man in cold blood. A duel - can you credit it! – in this day and age! He behaves like a character from a Dostoyevsky novel. He moves from one baccarat table to the next. His poor mother is always settling his bills, paying off his creditors, hushing things up. Monte Carlo, Alexandria, Constantinople, Biarritz – he goes wherever there is a casino and a clutch of dull, ugly, American heiresses he can charm. But why on earth are you staying at the Hotel Louve?”
The Countess explained about the unfortunate mix-up with Dr Watson’s room.
“Surely there are other hotels?” the Princess lamented, rolling a pair of rheumy old eyes that still had spark, wondering why a cosmopolitan Countess would choose as her travelling companion a provincial Scottish doctor sans title and wealth.
“With the World Spiritualist Congress in full swing, decent rooms are hard to come by. Besides, the Louve looks utterly charming.”
“Just like Orczy,” the old Princess sneered sardonically.
“It has a tranquil ambience and only four other guests.”
“That says it all, my dear Varvaruchka!”
“By the way, who owns the hotel?”
“Ah, good question! It is owned by a woman who goes by the name of the Singing Wolf, an ex-opera singer as dubious as her guests. No one really knows anything about her, and what they think they know cannot be verified. I’ve heard her called everything from Portuguese to Catalan; Syrian to Persian; Corsican to Moroccan; Sardinian to Sicilian; the list goes on and on. People will swear she is this or that but when you press them they cannot say why they think so or who told them.”
“Is the hotel her only source of income?”
“Oh, hardly, she’s fabulously wealthy, but that is the other thing – no one knows where her vast fortune came from. There are rumours, of course, but nothing you can believe. She couldn’t have earned it singing. She wasn’t at it for long enough. She was a truly brilliant soprano, a real diva, for it is only sopranos who can be called diva, but she cannot be much more than forty and she has been retired at least six or seven years now. I heard her sing Gilda in Verdi’s Rigoletto in St Petersburg many years back. Her performance was stupendous – the Tsarina was thrilled. That little maritime fort perched on that windswept rock facing the full force of every Atlantic gale would lose money, not earn it, and who would put up with the glare from le phare burning through the windows all night long – I hope you requested a room on the garden side! On a brighter note, I’ve heard she does occasionally perform an impromptu aria to the delight of her paying guests, so I suppose that’s why she hangs onto the hotel - once a diva, always a diva.”
The Countess decided to backtrack. “You mentioned rumours about her wealth?”
The old aristocrat waved a suede-gloved hand in the air like someone fanning a fly. “There are so many rumours they become a blur. I can hardly distinguish one from another. The only one that comes to mind is the one that tells how she discovered a cache of gold buried by the Cathars – le tresor cathar! - in some mountain stronghold not far from Lourdes. A romantic fairy tale! I wouldn’t be surprised if she put it about herself to add to her own mystique. And I seriously doubt it for another reason - her jewellery is all shiny and new. There is no old gold or antique silver. It is that horrible modern rubbish. She is never seen without some hideous new bauble designed by that talentless Rene Lolloque.”
“I think you might mean Lalique.”
“If you say so. What do they call it? Art Nouve?”
“Art Nouveau. Shall I order us another café au lait?”
The Princess groaned. “Oh, no, I shall be awake half the night. It’s just as well I will be staying up late. It is the final performance by the Imperial Warsaw Opera before they move on to the teatro alla Scala. La traviata is not one of my favourites, but that is the tiresome thing about seaside resorts – it behoves one to be seen to be keeping oneself amused. It was lovely to see you, Countess Varvara. Your late aunt would be proud of how you have turned - Oh, I am such a stupid old lady! – I have a spare ticket! My god-daughter has developed an ear infection and has been confined to her bed for at least the next five days. You simply must come w
ith me tonight. Don’t say no – I couldn’t bear it!” The Princess’s rheumy old sparklers lit up and she smiled slyly. “I bet the Singing Wolf will be there. You can see what I mean about the hideous modern jewellery for yourself. If not, well, at least you will meet Prince Anton Orczy and see for yourself how charmless he really is.”
Countess Volodymyrovna accepted the invitation with alacrity and they agreed to meet at the top of the stairs on the mezzanine level in the foyer of the opera house at seven o’clock.
The dining room of the Hotel Louve overlooked the sheltered courtyard garden with the burbling cherubic fountain. Pots of orchids clustered together in rare pockets of November sunshine. Biarritz enjoyed a mild climate and things that would have been shunted off to a glasshouse anywhere else still managed to flower at the seaside resort.
The waiter was a handsome Spaniard called Velazquez. He used to be a toreador but after the tragic death of a fellow bull-fighter during the annual bull-run in Pamplona he developed a type of stage-fright which manifested as violent physical trembling. Everyone took pity on the beautiful young man and pretended not to notice how his hands shook as he served at table. He often strummed a lively toque on his guitar toward the end of a meal when guests were enjoying dessert and coffee and it was only while he was performing that the tremors ceased.
“I say, this is the best meal I’ve had for some time,” declared Dr Watson enthusiastically, tucking into some mussels in white wine. “Something simple, done in a simple style, always goes down a treat. How is your paella?”
“Wonderful - the chef really is formidable! The menu appears to be an interesting blend of Spanish and French cuisine. The guitarist is good too.”
“I cannot believe we are the only two guests enjoying this first rate fayre. The others don’t know what they’re missing. I shall make it a point to dine-in every night. I spoke to the concierge while you were out with the Russian barnacle and he says the femme de chambre doing my room who doubles as a waitress when the dining room is full is also Spanish and she comes out to do a flamenco dance – oh, here she comes now!”
Like a true daughter of the gitanos, the dancer wearing a long, colourful, flouncy garment carried herself proudly with her head flung back and her back arched. The provocative flamenco called for a lot of foot-stamping and robust hand-clapping between interludes of the guitar, a pair of castanets added to the boisterousness of the performance.
“Bravo!” applauded Dr Watson when the baille came to a breathless halt. “Well, what did you think of that?” he put to his counterpart.
“Superb!”
“The Hotel du Palais pales in comparison to the Hotel Louve!”
“I’m glad it has worked out so well.”
“I am not well-versed with Spanish culture but I shall make it a point to acquaint myself with the intricacies of flamenco while we are staying here. I might start tonight when the dancer comes to turn down my bed.”
The Countess thought how nice it would be to have Velazquez turn down her bed while he educated her on the finer points of flamenco but the femme de chambre allocated to her room was a thick-lipped, frizzy-haired, heavy-handed Negress about fifteen years of age. Her name was Desi and the Countess thought it might be short for Desiderata. The sweet name was the only thing in the girl’s favour. She was extremely gauche, bumping into this, knocking into that, moving as clunkily as a black battleship in a regatta of sleek white yachts.
Nevertheless, the Countess was genuinely happy for Dr Watson. After that bad start at the Hotel du Palais this holiday was turning out rather well. Another day or two and all his recent worries would start to melt away. It was time to tell him that she was going to the opera with the Russian barnacle.
The final performance of La traviata meant that the best seats were sold out months ago, however, the Princess Roskovsky having all the right connections had managed to secure a private box on the second tier. She was running late and the two women had just enough time to get to their places before the lights dimmed and the curtain went up on the first act. They got out their opera glasses at once and scanned the rows of seats in the stalls then did the same with the boxes on the first and second tiers.
“There’s Prince Orczy,” whispered the Russian aristocrat, indicating a flaxen helmet of hair in the fourth row from the front. “He is escorting an American heiress – Miss Marjorie Mayflower and her mama from New York. They are wearing new tiaras. I heard they picked them up this morning from Bisous on the rue des pins.”
The Countess trained her glass on the prince first and the coronets second. “Oh, yes, I see, very nice, but not a match for your jewelled diadem, Princess Roskovsky.”
“This old Byzantine thing,” the old aristocrat dismissed with an airy wave of her silk-gloved hand. “I did some asking around this afternoon,” continued the Princess, “and box 2 on the first tier is permanently reserved for the Singing Wolf.”
The Countess retrained her glass. “That must be the vacant box on the other side from us but one level down. I wonder if she will make an appearance tonight.”
“I am reliably informed she is very fond of Verdi.”
The two women gave their concentration over to the performance. The Imperial Warsaw Opera was dear to the heart of the Countess for her birth mother, Miss Irene Adler, had started her career with the Polish operatic company. Box 2 remained disappointingly vacant throughout the first act.
During the first interval came the chance to mingle. French champagne was being dispensed gratis to opera patrons to celebrate the successful conclusion of the French tour. The Princess Roskovsky managed to catch the eye of Prince Orczy. He extricated himself from the Mayflowers and came straight over, planting a trio of kisses on the crêpey cheeks of the Russian Princess while running an appraising eye over the Countess at the same time.
“Let me introduce, Countess Varvara Volodymyrovna,” said the Princess proudly.
Prince Orczy recognized the patronymic at once and made a great show of kissing her hand. “I have fond memories of your step-papa, the Count of Odessos. I stayed as a house-guest in the summer of 79. I remember a pretty little girl in the cherry orchard and a basket brimming with something ripe and juicy.”
“I remember the cherry orchard but I confess I have no memory of you, Prince Orczy.”
His self-deprecating laugh was deep and throaty. “Perhaps I can leave a greater impression this time round.”
“Perhaps you will,” said the Countess coquettishly – for everything about the charmer from his dancing eyes to the right royal tilt of his princely chin invited flirtation, “We are apparently staying at the same hotel.”
Blond brows arched with mischievous interest. “Ah, that explains your presence in the foyer…”
The little bell rang, signalling a return to seats.
“A bientôt,” he promised with a sharp click of his heels, cutting off his own conjecture.
As the lights dimmed, the Countess noticed that box 2 was now occupied by three people - two men and a woman. The female occupant was the same stunning lady she had seen standing on the balcony of the Hotel Louve. Madly curious, she nevertheless managed to wait until the curtain went up before training her opera glass for a closer look.
When she was a young girl growing up in Odessa, the Countess possessed a book of fairy tales. One of her favourite tales was Snow White. The striking woman sitting opposite reminded her not of the insipid main character but the unrepentantly defiant, vainglorious Queen. She had the same widow’s peak and the same scandalous black hair, the same dark flashing eyes and the same sharp raptor’s nose, the same dangerous red mouth and the same queenly mien. She was, in a word, magnificent.
Next, the two consorts came in for some undivided attention. They were both handsome men of indeterminate age – a quaint euphemism for men who had passed the age of forty. Both men possessed that indefinable quality that tells the world they know their own worth down to the last shilling and that it is substantial – arr
ogant, proud and rich was stamped all over them.
The Princess Roskovsky leaned closer. “I see you have noticed the occupants of box 2.”
“Who are the two men?”
The Princess allowed for a discrete interval before training her glass, and then another safe interval before whispering behind her silk fan, “Baron Frederik Reichenbach and Herr Gustav von Gunn.”
Reichenbach! Now there was name to make the blood run cold!
When the next interval came the Countess hurried to the mezzanine, heart beating to a staccato drum, dragging the old Princess along by the elbow somewhat unceremoniously, and ran straight into Prince Orczy and the two Mayflowers – looking a little wilted though the night was still young. Mama Mayflower gushed about the interior decoration of Orthodox churches and it was impossible to get away. The Singing Wolf did not make an appearance though her two consorts could be seen enjoying a cigar at the top of the stairs.
The little bell rang and it was a return to seats.
Though it cost an effort, the Countess did not once glance in the direction of box 2, but her curiosity screamed to be settled.
“Which man is,” she paused and cautioned herself from appearing too eager to learn which man was Baron Reichenbach so she asked about the other, “Gustav von Gunn?”
“I thought you said you weren’t after a husband?” teased the old aristocrat.
“I’m just trying to put a name to a face.”
The Princess regarded her sceptically over the top of her fan. “Gustav is the one with the moustache like stunted stalks of golden stubble and a head like a wheatfield after the harvest. He manufactures munitions or armaments - or are they the same thing? Governments fall all over themselves to get on his good side, though from what I’ve heard he doesn’t actually have a good side. Despite my little joke, you could do a lot worse than become the next Madame von Gunn. He owns twelve castles – one for every month of the year.”