by Anna Lord
The Countess decided to give Dr Watson a chance to formally meet his fellow travellers in the observation car for himself. Xenia had been told to make herself scarce and not return for an hour. The Countess waited alone in her compartment for the door to burst open. It took twenty minutes from the time of boarding for the doctor to appear. He was frothing at the mouth.
“Are you mad!” he foamed.
“Close the door,” she relied calmly.
He did as she asked, making sure to lock it. “Are you mad!” he repeated apoplectically.
“I take it by that rhetorical rejoinder that you have met our fellow travellers?”
“If you mean Reichenbach and Moriarty – yes, I have met them!”
“Lower your tone and take a seat.”
“What game is this!” he gurgled, throwing himself down with exaggerated effort.
“I don’t know,” she replied truthfully. “I think we have stumbled into a nest of vipers.”
“Oh, so you admit it then!”
“Calm down – and let’s think clearly.”
“It is all clear enough to me!”
“If so, then you will have to admit this journey could not have been planned in advance.”
“I will admit no such thing!”
“No one could have foreseen you and me transferring to the Hotel Louve. Whatever game is afoot it has nothing to do with us.”
“You mean it had nothing to do with us.”
“Yes, I concede we are in it now, whatever it is.”
“Up to our necks!”
“The four men we are travelling with come every year to the Hotel Louve - always at the same time of year. I met Prince Orczy last night at the opera, and then later at the casino I met Baron Reichenbach and Herr von Gunn. I didn’t meet Moriarty until this morning. It was just before the fire broke out.”
“He was probably busy lighting it!”
She ignored the incendiary accusation. “He was with me in the garden at the time. The prince was heading toward the boulevard and the other two men were on the terrace taking a post-petit-dejeuner cigarette. None of them were anywhere near the kitchen when the fire started.”
He exhaled for the first time since storming her carriage and practically ripping the door off its hinges. “Well, at least it sounds as if you’ve been giving the matter some serious and careful consideration. I thought perhaps you were going to dismiss this coincidence as some sort of…coincidence.”
“I was as vexed as you when I heard the name Reichenbach. He is Prussian, by the way, not Swiss. There must be hundreds of Reichenbachs in Europe. The Princess Roskovsky said his roots go back to Charlemagne.”
“And Moriarty – did that name vex you?”
“I admit I felt alarmed. I tossed and turned all night when Xenia informed me last night that someone of that name had checked into the hotel.”
He slapped the side of his head and groaned quietly. “Don’t tell me your two servants are privy to the circumstances of the death of Sherlock?”
“Yes, of course they are. They have been with me constantly since childhood. My step-father instilled in me from a young age that I would always have three shadows – my own plus theirs. Slavery has been abolished. Serfdom went the same way in 1861. But some servants are for life. I have no secrets from them. I also learnt early in life that if they are to protect me from kidnappers, provocateurs, gold-diggers and assassins then they need to be privy to whoever enters my circle. Odessa is not London. We do things differently there. We think differently.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment or two. “What else did the Russian barnacle say?”
“Prince Anton Orczy is penniless. He drifts from one baccarat table to the next. His mother is always bailing him out of debt. I gather he is a bit of a charming wastrel.”
“Sounds harmless – that immediately makes me suspicious of him.”
She nodded meditatively. “Herr Gustav von Gunn is a German munitions manufacturer. He must be incredibly wealthy because he owns twelve castles. European governments fall all over themselves to court him.”
“I’m not surprised. Europe seems to lurch from one war to the next with brief interludes of peace but nothing permanent despite the best diplomatic efforts of the War Office and intelligent men like Mycroft. What about Moriarty?”
“I did not meet him until this morning, as I stated earlier, so the Princess Roskovsky was not able to offer any information that might prove enlightening. I learned his other two brothers are dead. They hail from an impoverished Irish clan. Their wealth has now been restored and he is restoring his mother’s family seat. I do not know how he earns his money.”
“I’ll tell you how he earns his money! He has stepped into his brother’s shoes! He is the new Napoleon of Crime!”
“Colonel of Crime,” she corrected acerbically. “His brother, Professor James Hieronymous Moriarty, was the Napoleon of Crime. I was told the second brother, James Vercengetorix, was a musical genius, but this one is the third sibling – James Isambard Moriarty.”
“Insanity must run in the family! All right – Colonel of Crime! That will help us to distinguish one evil nutter from another!”
“We can refer to the second as the Composer of Crime.”
“What?”
“He was a talented composer – it will help us to distinguish, as you said.”
“I’ve never heard of him and I pride myself on keeping up with the latest composers.”
“I think his musical scores may have been esoteric, out of this world, not for common consumption – compositions based on musical spheres and astronomical measurements or heavenly predictions.”
“Oh, good grief! What did I just say! Another nutter! But you mentioned he was dead?”
“Yes, so I believe, but if we need to refer to him…”
“Very well: Composer of Crime! Let’s hope there isn’t a fourth nutter waiting in the wings! We will run out of ridiculous nicknames starting with C!” Dr Watson, face flushed, turned to look out of the window at the forest whizzing past while his anger cooled. Armies of soldierly fir trees stood straight and tall like a phalanx of warriors. The military image was unnerving. “Nest of vipers,” he muttered uneasily. “What can these four rogues be up to?”
The Countess had also been gazing at the phallic fir forest and she felt oddly unnerved by the masculine force of nature. “I have been giving the matter some thought and it might be a simple case of unrequited love?”
His brows found something interesting in the suggestion. “The Singing Wolf?”
She nodded. “The four men could be vying for her favour.”
“Or her hand?”
“She does not strike me as the marrying kind.”
“All women are the marrying kind.”
“A common male misconception! A poor woman must marry out of economic necessity but a rich one, well, there are few incentives apart from social status or procreation.”
“Is that your step-aunt talking?”
“Yes, I was thoroughly indoctrinated until I could see for myself how right she was.”
“So, you think the four men come together each year to court the Singing Wolf?”
“It’s possible.”
“Yes,” he agreed circumspectly. “She snaps her fingers and they come running. She is a stunning looking lady.”
“Let’s not forget how wealthy she is purported to be. No man could resist such a prize. Moriarty could restore his old family seat sparing no expense, von Gunn could double the size of his manufactories and double his profits, Orczy could pay off his debts and gamble to his heart’s content, and Reichenbach could recapture the glory days of Charlemagne.”
“Do you think she toys with them?”
“Yes, I think she keeps them on a string. The promise of passion, untold wealth, tangible beauty, the prospective sweetness of taming something wild and free - it is always there, dangling just in front of their eyes, close enough to see, yet just out of
reach.”
“Do you consider the men weak?”
“Pas du tout, mon ami. They are courageous, strong, driven - they remind me of Parzival on a quest after the Holy Grail. They regard the conquest of the Singing Wolf as one of life’s challenges. They come willingly to Biarritz. She does not drag them kicking and screaming. This morning they ran to put out the fire in the kitchens without any thought of personal danger. They could have stood back and watched the place go up in smoke but they reacted without hesitation. There was no moment of doubt, no consideration given to the threat to their own safety. A father running into a burning building to save his only child could not have outrun them.”
“I suppose when you put it that way, it must be love that drives them and yet...” He paused and rubbed his bristly chin.
“And yet?”
“Something doesn’t sit right.”
She glanced out of the window while he extracted a cigarette and lighted it.
“I agree – something doesn’t sit right.”
“It’s that phrase you used – nest of vipers – I cannot rid myself of it.”
“Nor can I,” she admitted frankly, “even though I plucked it out of thin air.”
“Did you? Did you really?”
She steepled her fingers while she wrestled with that question. The subconscious mind was a masterful interplay of unspoken thoughts, beliefs and impressions formed behind the veneer of logical thinking.
“Light one up for me. Xenia packed in a hurry and my cigarettes are in my cosmetic case.”
Obligingly, he passed her his own glowing Bradley before lighting another and returning to the same question. “Something must have prompted the phrase.”
She took a long deep inhalation of tobacco and felt it go deep into her lungs. “The names most likely – Reichenbach and Moriarty. But I have since wondered whether I might have simply jumped the gun. This Moriarty is not the same Moriarty who hounded Sherlock to his death. To tar him with the same brush is morally unjust.”
“Innocent until proven guilty; sins of the brother and all that.”
“Yes, yes, all that. As for Reichenbach – you would never condemn someone called York simply because someone you knew had died in the city of York. It makes no sense. The connection is purely geographic.”
“And yet?”
“And yet…” she sighed heavily. “I think there is something about the four men, a thread, if you will, that connects them in some way that is subversive. I cannot say what makes me think so, perhaps it is my un-English up-bringing in Odessa, or being raised by an uninhibited adventuress, a remarkably shrewd woman when it came to dubious men, but I sense something dark, possibly even dangerous about our four fellow travellers. A wealthy young woman of independent means who has not led a sheltered life develops a sixth sense about men who have something to hide. I cannot shrug off the feeling that the annual get-together in Biarritz is not limited exclusively to the pursuit of the goddess of love. A Balkan prince, a German munitions manufacturer, a Prussian with a strong military background and an Irish colonel – there is some secret that binds them, something shadowy, something sinister, having said that, the obvious conclusion seems too obvious and thus totally wrong.”
“Armaments, military ties, enemies of Great Britain,” he reeled off gravely. “How can something that is obvious be wrong?”
“It is the presence of the fifth.”
“The fifth?”
“The Singing Wolf.”
6
Train Privée
Dr Watson chewed his bottom lip. “I wish I could whip off a telegram to Mycroft. He would settle the mystery of the four men in a trice. He would know all there is to know about our mysterious hostess too. Do you know if we are stopping at Lourdes?”
“Fedir overheard the station master talking to the engine driver. We go as far as the way-station in Bogomil. It falls short several miles of Lourdes. We must find out as much as we can about our fellow travellers without arousing their suspicion.”
“How do you suggest we do that?”
“We quiz them on how they met, where they met, when they met, but always in a conversational tone.”
He began shaking his head. “It won’t work. I cannot do it. As soon as I ask a question it will look as if I am prying. I have not perfected the art of being a sneak.”
“Very well, leave it to me. In fact, it will be better that way. As far as our fellow travellers are concerned there is no connection between myself and Sherlock, but as for you, well, when Moriarty mentions the name Sherlock to you do not react defensively.”
“How do you know he will mention it?”
“You are sounding defensive already,” she pointed out crisply. “He will mention it because he will not wish to appear as if he has something to hide.”
“Your logic is topsy-turvy. Appearing as if he has nothing to hide means he has something to hide. Presumably, then, when one has nothing to hide one appears as if one has something to hide.”
“Exactement, mon ami. People who have nothing to hide lead uneventful lives of no interest to anyone, including themselves, but they do not wish anyone else to know they may be shallow and boring, thus they behave as if they have something to hide to make themselves appear mysterious and interesting. That is called Society.”
“Oh, spare me!” he groaned. “Give me a good book for company any day!”
She laughed lightly but the laugh was short-lived. “I’ve just seen the flaw in my flawless logic. The Singing Wolf has veiled herself in mystery. Does that mean she has nothing to hide? Or is she pulling off the perfect double bluff? Appearing mysterious to hide the fact she has something to hide?”
Dr Watson groaned again. “I’ll see you in the observation car. Give me about fifteen minutes before following. We don’t want to appear as if we are arriving together and have nothing to hide.”
The observation car reminded the doctor of a gentleman’s smoking room in a Parisian hotel in the Marais where he had briefly stayed with Sherlock during the case of the haunted synagogue which he never wrote up, ceding to the request of the League de Judaisme. The banquettes and bergeres were upholstered in black and gold gaufrage velvet trimmed with matching black bullion fringing, cut-glass candle holders dotted the tables and some of the candles were already a-flicker though it was only mid-afternoon for the sky had clouded over and the light was a gloomy grey. The seating was arranged in intimate groupings suited to conversation or a game of cards. Prince Orczy was engaged in a game of chess with Baron Reichenbach. Herr von Gunn was reading a German newspaper and puffing on a cigar. Aromatic scent filled the car. Colonel Moriarty was smoking a cigarette and leaning precariously on the wrought iron railing of the little balcony at the rear of the train.
Dr Watson decided to bite the bullet. If he had something unpleasant or distasteful to do, he always preferred to get it out of the way. Ergo if there were sprouts for dinner he ate them first then enjoyed the rest of his meal. He regarded Colonel Moriarty as he would a sprout. He took a deep breath, pulled a sour face, and swallowed hard. For a brief moment he allowed himself to imagine what might happen if the train lurched suddenly and the Irishman took a tumble. It was during his momentary fantasy that someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was the sultry flamenco dancer, Inez.
“My mistress extends an invitation for you, signor, to join her in her private car.”
His sour face cleared to a smile. He thanked the young woman and turned at once on his heel to follow her, though he knew the private car of the Singing Wolf was the second after the locomotive engine. The first after the locomotive, which caught the soot from the fire if the windows were left opened, was reserved for baggage and servants. The third and fourth cars, known as the wagons-lit, each housed three sleeping compartments and a bathroom. A narrow corridor ran along one side of the cars and at each end was a door that enabled a person to step from one car to the next. People were mindful that a mis-step meant slipping between the cars onto
the tracks. Some of the older trains did not allow such crossover. Some of the newer ones were being designed in such a way as to make the crossover safer.
Dr Watson had not yet met their hostess and presumed that was why he had received the personal invitation. A tray table sat ready with two glasses and a bottle of amontillado. He felt instantly relieved and self-importantly chuffed that there would be no third party present.
“Please make yourself comfortable, Dr Watson,” she said in a mellifluous accent that he could not quite pin down, indicating the sumptuously padded velvet banquette opposite her own with an elegant wave of her hand.
“The countryside changes rather dramatically in this part of the world,” she continued as Inez filled two glasses with Spanish sherry. “The land to the west is like the forests of Europe, like the Black Forest, dark, wet and treed, and then we move inland and the land dries out, as if someone has squeezed it dry. I always think it has cried itself out. The history of the Cathars is tragic. The landscape reflects the suffering. We are seeing the start of that now. If you look out of the window you will see fewer trees and more rocks. Are you familiar with the Pyrenees?”
“No, this is my first visit.”
“Then you are in for a treat. Is that how the Engleesh say such things? Treat?”
“Yes, quite.”
“You are Scotteesh, no?”
“Yes, I was born in Edinburgh.”
“You have travelled much?”
“Yes, I think it might be safe to say so – I have travelled a good deal in the last few years on the Continent.”
“You Engleesh have a funny way of saying things – might be safe – as if there is danger in saying what is true. You are modest, I think.”