by Anna Lord
He could feel himself turning pink and took a sip of sherry to disguise the fact. “I like to think so, yes, modesty is a virtue, boasting is not good form.”
“To say you travel a good deal is not boasting. To have the good fortune to travel is admirable if it broadens the mind and feeds the soul.”
“Oh, yes, indeed – that is the chief aim of travelling as far as I am concerned: to educate, to enlighten, to grow as a person.”
“To have the luck or wealth to do this is good, no? There is no shame in luck or wealth.”
“Certainly not, as long as they are earned.”
“Earned? How Scotteesh! How Engleesh! How foreign is such an idea! To earn luck! If it is earned then it is not luck. Luck is happenstance. Luck is chance. Luck is a wish fulfilled. Earned? No! Never!”
“It must be my Scottish roots but I like to think that luck goes to the deserving.”
She threw back her head and laughed without reserve. “But you must see that the world does not work that way! No, never! I have never met a deserving beggar who has the luck on his side. Have you ever met such a lucky beggar in your travels, Dr Watson?”
He was quite pink at this stage and squirming uncomfortably. His philosophies never matched the real world and yet he persisted with adhering to them. He felt quite foolish when pressed. “No,” he admitted, “my world view and reality never match. I’m afraid my philosophy is akin to wishful thinking.”
“Ah, you are a romantic! I like that very much in a man! There are not enough romantic men in the world! There a lot of men who pretend to be romantic, who woo, pay court, play at romance, but that is not the same, no?”
“No, indeed.”
“It is like someone who goes to church to pray but in his heart says: there is no God.”
“Yes, quite, the head says one thing but the heart says another.”
“Which one do you believe, Dr Watson?”
“About God, you mean?”
“About your head or heart.”
“I don’t have a cut and dried rule, as such, that I follow rigidly. I weigh up what to believe as it arises. It has to be based on rational thinking, yes, but I acknowledge feelings play a part in all of our decisions. We are sentient beings but we are also influenced by our emotions.”
“Bravo! I like the way you explained that. You are an intelligent man as well as a romantic – that is rare. Countess Varvara is very lucky to have such a wise travelling companion. Are you intimately acquainted?”
Okay! That did it! He turned bright red. The word intimate could be translated several different ways, especially by fiery, hot-blooded, sensual foreigners. “We met only two months ago, so you see we are not intimately acquainted, no, just good friends.”
She smiled knowingly, motioning for her maid to top up the glasses then leave them.
“Do you see how the scenery changes, Dr Watson?”
He turned to look out of the window and breathed a sigh of relief. The conversation was getting a touch too personal for a stiff-lipped Scotsman.
“Some interesting rock formations,” he said blandly.
“Do you know the legend of the Pyrenees?”
He shook his head. “I really don’t know much about this part of the world at all.”
“The Pyrenees get their name from Pyrene, a princess, daughter of Bebryx, a ruler from Gaul. Hercules, that mythical hero of men, raped her and then left her to give birth to a serpent. When she fled her home from shame and wept out her story to the trees she was torn to pieces by wild beasts. Only the mountains wept for her and sighed: Pyrene, Pyrene, Pyrene.”
Countess Volodymyrovna arrived in the observation car and wondered where Dr Watson had disappeared. Prince Orczy and Baron Reichenbach were engaged in a game of chess. The Baron was bound to call checkmate in the next three moves. Herr von Gunn was reading a newspaper in German and smoking a Havana. The exotic aroma was quite tantalizing. Colonel Moriarty was on the rear balcony, leaning negligently against the railing. For a fleeting moment she wondered if he had pushed Dr Watson off the train and her heart skipped a beat, but then Herr von Gunn looked up from his newspaper.
“Your friend has gone to have a tête-a-tête with our hostess in her private car.”
Prince Orczy added with emphasis, “Inez came to issue a personal invitation. We were all green with envy.”
“Checkmate!” declared the Baron.
“Oh, thank God for that!” exclaimed the Prince. “I have been trying my hardest to lose for the last ten minutes.”
“Balderdash! You just cannot admit when you have been beaten by a better player! How about a game von Gunn?”
“Very well, but I will go ivory. You can take the ebony pieces this time.”
“Another brandy, gentlemen?” asked the Prince, cracking open a fresh bottle.
“Yes, top up the glasses, Orczy,” replied the Baron.
The Countess declined the offer of an afternoon aperitif and slipped out to join Moriarty on the observation deck. She watched him toss his spent cigarette onto the railway track and immediately light up another. He offered it to her, transferring it from his lips, and she took it.
“We have left the forest behind,” he said laconically. “More rocks, fewer trees.”
She inhaled deeply and blew bracelets of smoke into the wind. “Turkish or Russian?”
“My own blend. There’s a tobacconist on Old Bond Street. He makes them up for me and keeps me supplied. Eugene Goostman & Sons. The Prince of Wales is a client. Sarah Bernhardt swears by him. Oscar Wilde, when he had the funds, was a regular customer. I could have some sent to your London address. In fact, I would consider it an honour, Countess Varvara, if you would allow me to make a gift of them.”
“I don’t know how long I intend to be travelling on the Continent. I may not return to London for several months,” she lied, noting that he addressed her less formally.
“You will not be returning to the capital for Christmas?” he pressed.
“I have no plans at this stage.”
“They have a long life,” he persisted.
She gazed up at the blanket of woolly clouds while she inhaled. “I’m sure they do. We might be in for another rainstorm.”
“Let us hope not.”
She discerned a note of tension. “Do you fear the track might flood?”
“I fear we are entering Sarazan’s territory and the track might flood.”
“Sarazan?”
“The local warlord. The region we are entering is rife with brigands who make a living robbing train travellers and extorting money from hapless pilgrims and farmers. Not even the poor are spared. If the track floods we will be at his mercy.”
“Does he always target trains?”
He gave a curt nod. “Trains are lucrative. Most of the passengers will have money and valuables on them. The French government has started employing armed guards on this particular line but one or two armed guards against ruthless bandits is an exercise in futility. Last month an engine driver and several passengers were killed in a gun fight.”
“I presume the Singing Wolf took some precautions, by that I mean we have some weapons and ammunition on board?”
“I presume so too, yes, since she is no fool, plus we all carry our own weapon of choice. You too, Countess?”
“Bien sur.”
He did not look surprised. “And your servants?”
“They know how to shoot. I can arm them if the need arises.”
“Once the need arises it will be too late. We need to confer before dinner to decide how we intend to defend ourselves. After dinner we will be deep inside lawless territory and there will be no time to dream up a defensive strategy.” He glanced through the window into the observation car. “There’s Dr Watson and our hostess coming to join us now. Let’s go in and discuss a plan of action.”
Inez was lighting the candles in the crystal holders. Velazquez was refreshing the brandy balloons. Colonel Moriarty took the floor.
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br /> “The Countess and I were just discussing Sarazan. What are we going to do in the event of an attack?”
Velazquez dropped a crystal glass.
Inez went quickly to help him gather up the broken pieces.
Dr Watson felt puzzled and alarmed in equal measure. “I beg your pardon, Colonel? What is Sarazan? And what attack are we talking about?”
Herr von Gunn answered for him. “Sarazan is the leader of a group of brigands who roam this region and terrorize the locals. He is also known to attack trains.” He paused and allowed his eyes to circle the interior of the car. “We are all armed, are we not?”
Everyone nodded.
“We must arm the servants too,” pronounced the Baron. “From this point on, until we reach the safety of Chanteloup, everyone should remain armed at all times. If the attack does not come tonight, it may come tomorrow as we travel on horseback.”
“I’d wager that is the more likely scenario,” said the Prince. “Sarazan is unlikely to attack a private train because he will have no way of knowing who is on board and how much of a fight he will have on his hands, but tomorrow as we trek through narrow mountain passes he can pick us off one by one at his leisure.”
Dr Watson’s heart began beating fast. He was no coward. He had witnessed war first hand and fought in several battles where men around him gasped their last and he had not disgraced himself, but this sounded outrageous. The phrase ‘sitting ducks’ stuck in his craw. What sort of holiday was this! What sort of hell was this! What sort of vipers had he got himself involved with! They were discussing holding off ruthless brigands armed to the teeth the way most men would discuss the best strategy for tackling a scrum of thick-necked rugby players. He turned to his hostess. She had failed to mention any of this while he had been enjoying an amontillado in her private car and he felt incensed at being kept in the dark.
“Has the train ever been attacked?” he put point blank.
“Once,” she replied without a trace of tension, “the bandits blocked the train track using a felled tree trunk. It forced us to come to a sudden halt, but as soon as they attempted to board and we fired off a few bullets they fled back to the mountains. They are opportunistic not stupid. They have no wish to die. They prefer to tackle those who are weak and defenceless. As soon as they realize they are in for a fight they turn tail and run.”
That sounded nominally reassuring. Dr Watson breathed easier.
Colonel Moriarty took the floor again. “I suggest we take turns keeping watch tonight just to be on the safe side. The observation platform at the rear of the train is our weak point. If bandits are going to board the train that will most likely be the point of entry. I can take the first watch and then Reichenbach can take over at three o’clock. The second weak point is the locomotive.” He turned to the Countess. “You said your man knew how to shoot. He proved himself a brave fellow during that kitchen fire. I think he should stay with the engine driver and the stoker. They will be too busy keeping the train going to defend themselves. It is vital they have someone to provide cover.”
She was impressed by his astuteness. “I can supply him with a weapon.”
Moriarty continued calling the shots by the sheer force of his personality which everyone tacitly acknowledged. “Dr Watson, you can guard the third wagon-lit where the Countess will remain with her personal maid by her side. Orczy can take turns with von Gunn in guarding our hostess in her private car. The four servants from the Hotel Louve can remain in the baggage car. If all four are armed they should be able to fend off an attack.” He turned to the handsome toreador. “Velazquez, you will be in charge. Make sure that Milo and Desi understand the need to remain vigilant at all times.”
“Let’s dine early,” suggested the Baron peremptorily. “It will soon be dark and we don’t want to be caught out.”
“I propose we eschew getting changed for dinner and stay as we are,” added von Gunn melodramatically. “The sooner we are prepared to fend off an attack the better.”
7
Sarazan
The night passed tensely but without drama. Everyone played their part and nerves were so stretched no one slept for more than hour. The day dawned dull and grey with a thick November mist that veiled the view from the train’s widows as the locomotive chugged into the wayside station of Bogomil, a hamlet of stone hovels, which if they could see, was actually in the middle of nowhere. Waiting for them was a string of donkeys and a small herd of fine looking Andalusian horses. They breakfasted under some dwarfish pine trees while the entire population of Bogomil, meaning three men, five women and eleven children, loaded the luggage onto the backs of the donkeys. There was no sign of any brigands and none had been spotted for several weeks said one of the Bogomils – a craggy-faced, pipe-smoking, back-bent crone.
The man who supplied the horses was called El Lopes. He owned a prosperous farm outside Lourdes and was of the opinion that Sarazan had moved east, closer to Carcassonne, to warmer climes ahead of the winter chill and the first snowfall. He greeted the Singing Wolf in the manner of a loyal subject greeting Bramimonde, the Queen of Saragossa, and it seemed he trusted her implicitly to return his precious horses and pack of donkeys, bidding the party adios and riding off into the mist with his retinue of heavily armed farmhands as soon as the loading of bags was underway.
The late autumn sun was struggling to break through the grey curtain of the Pyrenees as they set forth north, heading into wild and windswept terrain. This was poor country, dry and barren in summer, freezing cold in winter. Granite outcrops dotted the treeless plain.
Colonel Moriarty rode at the front of the party. Herr von Gunn took up a position in the middle. Dr Watson and Baron Reichenbach remained at the rear. In between Moriarty and von Gunn came the horses, after von Gunn stretched the donkeys and several boys from the clan Bogomil who came along to keep the animals in line. They would return home once the party reached its destination safely. Milo, his hands still bandaged, rode with Velazquez. Desi doubled up with Inez, and everyone noted that the two women resembled a fairy and an elephant sitting astride a horse.
As soon as the morning mist lifted they could see the peak known as Chanteloup rising in the near-distance. The Chateau de Chanteloup was still under cloud cover. It was reputed to be a Cathar stronghold, but in reality most of the fortresses in these parts pre-dated Catharism. Some had foundations that went back to the days of Roman domination. Later they served as French garrisons strengthened during the Hundred Years War. Many were again enlarged during the Wars of Religion between the Catholics and the Huguenots. They were amazing feats of architecture, not because of their style – for they had none of the beauty of the Romanesque or Gothic – but because they were perched precariously on precipices that defied belief. They had walls ten feet thick and vertiginous defensive towers that soared skyward.
The journey was slow-going. The terrain was rough and the donkeys were plodders. Everyone was wary of being ambushed whenever they passed a copse of scraggly oaks or a cluster of rocks that might provide hiding places for brigands. By midday they reached the southern foothills of Chanteloup and stopped at a small clearing where the horses and donkeys could crop some grass.
“Plat de cremats,” whispered the Bogomil boys, crossing themselves Catholic style, “the place where heretics were burned in the year of Our Lord 1244.”
Lunch was a cup of cold coffee and some crusty bread. They did not light a fire for fear of bringing attention to themselves, and the irony was not lost on any of the travellers. The young Bogomils kept watch while they wolfed down their simple repast.
“Chateau de Chanteloup is not a chateau according to the romantic French imagination,” explained the Singing Wolf when the Countess enquired about the history of the ancient fortress. “None of the Cathar fortresses were grand or impressive, apart from Carcassonne, which is really a large village or town. Half way up the mountain, as we ascend the path to the north gate, we will pass a clutch of stone cottages built
into the hillside. My servants live there. I confess to being a recluse. I prefer my own company when I am in residence, and for the four months when I am not in residence Chanteloup is completely cut off from the world. I retain just two caretakers year round. The other servants arrive each day at first light and return to their homes when darkness falls. The castle gates are then locked to keep out wolves. I think you will find it comfortable enough, though to be honest I have never stayed during the winter months. Between November and March I always stay in Biarritz. Chanteloup has no radiators, just open fires, no electric lights and no gasoliers, just candles. You may find it Spartan compared to what you are accustomed...”
Bang!
A rifle shot rang out. Everyone dropped what they were doing and dived for cover. Velazquez jumped like a jack-in-the-box and ended up with cold coffee all over his crotch. Milo and Desi clung tightly to each other as they huddled behind a bush of spiky thorns and tried not to get stabbed in the eye. Spooked by the loud noise, several of the horses might have bolted but Baron Reichenbach and Dr Watson had made sure they were tethered as soon as the riders dismounted.
More rifle shots rang out. The shots were coming from a group of rocks to the left. Dr Watson and Baron Reichenbach, stationed further back than the others, managed to return fire, and when one of the bandits was brazen enough to raise his head above the rocky parapet a bullet from the gun-barrel of the Baron found its mark and the outlaw plummeted down the side of the rock-face.
For a few minutes no one moved a muscle. Colonel Moriarty was the first to break cover, drawing fire in order to flush out the hiding places of the bandits. Several shots were exchanged as Moriarty shift around to the right. A hail of bullets suddenly rained down from above and another careless bandit fell to his death.
Without warning a rifle shot rang out from behind them. One of the bandits had positioned himself on a rocky ledge to the rear of their temporary encampment. The danger was immediately evident to everyone.