by Anna Lord
“You sound like you are suffering from some sort of psychosis,” returned von Gunn with odd good humour. “You Irish love your horses more than your women from what I’ve heard.”
Moriarty laughed richly. “To be sure! To be sure! But we men cannot dominate the conversation when there are two ladies present.” He turned to their benevolent hostess. “Dear lady, what were you thinking while you were praying?”
“I was thinking about sin.”
Moriarty turned to the Countess. “And what was Countess Varvara thinking while praying for the Princess Roskovsky?”
“I was thinking about the last time I spoke to her.”
“Bravo!” congratulated the Singing Wolf. “At least one of us has an ability to focus. Why don’t we put our focus to the test and recount an incident where a murderer has gone undetected.”
“Unpunished or undetected?” clarified Dr Watson.
“Undetected,” she replied.
“Undetected but not unsuspected?” checked the Countess.
“Yes, otherwise we would merely have a death and not a murder. Murder presupposes the death to be suspicious and thus there must be a suspect.”
Herr von Gunn pushed to his feet. “I must beg off. Today’s trek has completely –”
“Nonsense!” snapped their hostess, cutting him off and fixing her sights on the men who were squirming in their seats, preparing to also beg off. “Don’t tell me you are tired, gentlemen. We dined early to make up for missing lunch. It is not yet eight o’clock. As a guest it is your duty to indulge the whim of your hostess. Indulge me. Who wants to go first?”
Dr Watson, who already had in mind a murder where the murderer got clean away, volunteered. He was really beginning to enjoy himself and couldn’t remember the last time he actually offered to go first in a party game. Since arriving at Chanteloup his misgivings had melted away and his body and soul felt lighter.
“My story is set in Edinburgh,” began Dr Watson. “I was a boy of twelve and too young to realize the implications of all that happened until much later. One of our more prosperous neighbours decided to wallpaper his wife’s bedroom as a surprise for her birthday while she was visiting her family up north. He selected a vivid green flock paper with scrolls of foliage. It looked like a fairy tale forest and was much admired by everyone who saw it. The praise went to his head and he decided to paper the ceiling, the door and even the bedroom furniture. Thrilled with the result, he purchased vivid green moquette to match. Within the year the wife fell ill. Nothing was diagnosed though she visited many doctors, including my father, and tried every cure imaginable. She spent more and more time in her room, growing weaker and weaker. Eventually she died. Several years later an article was published in a medical journal linking green dye with arsenical poisoning. Why do I think the husband got away with murder? He had taken out a substantial insurance policy on his wife the week he began papering her room. He worked as a law clerk next door to a wallpaper manufactory. Whenever he papered he wore a breathing mask and gloves. A month after the wife died he sold the house and migrated to Australia.”
“An excellent recount, plainly and clearly expressed, Dr Watson,” praised their hostess. “The husband got away with murder. Who will go next?”
“I will,” said Prince Orczy, who was born with a competitive nature and did not like the idea of going last, even going second irritated him, but the slow-witted Scottish doctor had been quick off the mark and beat him to the punch.
“Very well,” said the Singing Wolf, giving the nod to the Prince.
“My story is set in an area renowned for having a large and pristine lake. Two brothers, rivals for the same girl, go out rowing one evening just as the sun is setting. They are strong rowers and have no fear, though clouds are banking up and a summer storm is brewing. All the other boats have gone back to shore. They know the waters of the lake well for their home is on the southern bank and they have grown up there. They know the shallow spots and the deep water. They row and row. The storm breaks. Darkness falls. Next morning the eldest brother is found dead, floating face down where the water laps the southern bank. A search is mounted. God is merciful. The second brother is found alive. He has managed to swim all the way to the northern shore. The dinghy has sunk without trace. How do I know the second brother killed the first?”
“He married the girl,” joked Moriarty.
“Yes, he married the girl. He also swam every day. The elder brother suffered from asthma. He tired easily in water and cold water always sapped his strength.”
“That is a bit feeble,” grumbled von Gunn.
“Ah, but a third party was standing on a balcony looking through a telescope at the silvery waters in the storm. That person saw one brother stand up in the dinghy and rock dangerously from side to side just before the dinghy capsized.”
“That sounds like boyish high-jinks,” observed the doctor.
“Manslaughter at worst,” commented the Colonel.
“At the inquest the observer could not swear which of the brothers had rocked the boat and since he was merely holidaying by the lake he soon departed and the incident was forgotten. The surviving son inherited a not insubstantial fortune.”
“Thank you, Anton,” said the Singing Wolf. “Who will go next?”
“I will,” jumped in von Gunn. “My story is set in a military academy highly regarded for turning out well-heeled officers. It likewise involves two men.”
“Two brothers?” posed the baron.
“No, just friends.”
“And a girl – there is always a girl?” said the Colonel teasingly.
“Cherchez la femme!” laughed the Prince.
“Yes, there is a girl in the background, but this one is a sister of one of the men.”
Von Gunn paused to draw on his cigar. He was not used to storytelling. He was a businessman not a raconteur like Anton or a natural wit like the Irishman or a born strategist like Reichenbach who understood the complexities of a beginning, middle and end.
“Go on,” prompted the Baron. “We are an impatient bunch.”
“Accustomed to being readily gratified,” jibed the Prince.
“Well, one of the men said something which dishonoured the sister. The second man, her brother, challenged him to a duel.”
“I thought duelling was unlawful?” said the Prince.
“It is,” replied Moriarty dryly, “and so is murder.”
Everyone laughed.
“Go on, Gustav,” encouraged the Singing Wolf. “A duel sounds very romantic.”
The German licked his lips. “Well, the two men faced off one morning on the firing range in the grounds of the academy. Someone managed to procure two old duelling pistols – magnificent weapons with some nice copper-nickel alloy embellishment, also known as German silver which -”
“We don’t need a description of the pistols,” interrupted the Baron. “We all know what antique duelling pistols look like, just as we did not require a description of the dinghy or the furniture in the green bedroom.”
“Yes, quite,” mumbled von Gunn, licking his lips, “well, one of the pistols failed to fire. One man survived and the other didn’t.”
“And the reason you suspect murder as opposed to bad luck?” quizzed Moriarty.
“Oh, yes, the firing pin had been deliberately jammed. The dead man’s second accused the survivor of tampering with the pin - the survivor denied it. The dead body was left on the firing range and when target practice got underway the next day it appeared as if the dead man had been accidentally shot. Only those present at the duel knew otherwise.”
“I suppose several people had access to the duelling pistols?” quizzed the doctor.
“Yes,” replied von Gunn. “They were in a display case in the gun room and the survivor had been seen admiring them the week before he issued the challenge.”
“Laissez-faire,” dismissed the Baron. “I’ll go next if no one objects?”
Everyone nodded.
>
Reichenbach took a sip of brandy to wet his whistle. “My story involves two men, not brothers – a father and son. The father is a cruel sot. When he is not debauching the housemaids he is horse-whipping the grooms and kicking the hunting dogs. His wife has long since died of shame and ill-treatment. The two eldest sons have long since fled the foul nest. The third son is much younger, one of those change-of-life babies who come late in life to women past their prime, conceived in a drunken rage. The boy spends most of his time hiding from the old man. He cowers on the servants’ stairs where he may receive advance notice when to run. He watches as each servant trips on the same step – always the ninth. He is a bright boy. He finds a ruler and measures each riser and discovers that the ninth riser is a fraction of an inch out. It is a miniscule difference and yet everyone trips going up and coming down. He gets an idea. He waits until the old man is called away to business in town and must stay overnight. He dismantles the fourteenth plank on the main stairs and then replaces it. The servants are baffled but they know how to hold their tongues. The sot returns the next day and trips going up the stairs. Later that same night as he comes down to dinner he trips and falls to his death at the base of the staircase.”
Everyone clapped. The Baron knew how to tell a good story with just the right amount of detail. The inference was clear. The boy had murdered his father by altering the height of the riser a fraction of an inch. If any of the servants suspected foul play they stayed silent for they had no love for the tyrant who had tormented them.
“I wonder if the boy went on to commit other murders,” mused Dr Watson circumspectly. “Having succeeded early in life and finding murder an easy thing to get away with, well, it might have gone to his young head.”
“Yes,” said the Baron, “I see what you are getting at – the next time the bright boy comes across a despot he dreams up a clever plan to get rid of him too.”
“Have there been a spate of step murders in Europe?” asked the Prince with an ironic grin.
“Dr Watson might be the best one to answer that,” responded Moriarty drily, “since he worked alongside the famous London consulting detective, Mr Sherlock Holmes.”
Astonishment was registered all round and the doctor turned pink, not because he was embarrassed about the association but because he was suddenly the centre of attention, something that always made him feel uncomfortable, moreover, he did not wish to discuss his time with Sherlock or expound on the tragic incident in Switzerland. It was the Singing Wolf who came to his rescue.
“We are getting off piste. We have not all had a turn yet. James, you go next.”
The Irishman pushed to his feet and moved to the fire where he prodded the embers with a poker. “The men have been hogging the limelight all evening. It is generally the rule that ladies should go before gentlemen and we have two ladies present.”
The two women insisted that he go next. He resisted. They persisted.
“In that case,” he said, conceding defeat, “my story involves murder on a mass scale yet is not half as interesting as the baron’s simple tale. A young radical is filled with the zeal of the political revolutionary – there are so many unhappy men roaming the streets, hungry for bread, hungry for reform, hungry to overthrow the ruling elite. He decides to punish the Jewish owner of a large glove factory who grows fat from the sweat of his workers. He breaks into the factory one night and sets up some amateurish homemade bombs. They fail to detonate. Before he has time to check what had gone wrong he is spotted by the night-watchman and must make a run for it. A few hours later the workforce, mostly women, arrive. They settle at their work-stations and the first bomb suddenly goes off. It sets off the others. Those who are not blown to kingdom-come are burned to death or trampled in the stampede to get to the exits which are all bolted from the outside as is the normal practice in factories to stop late-comers sneaking in. The Jewish owner is enjoying his breakfast across town when the terrible news reaches him. He opens a new factory the following year. The young radical is never caught. He remains free to roam.”
“The zealot didn’t actually intend to commit murder,” pointed out the Prince.
Moriarty cocked a blond brow. “One may reason that making a bomb and planting a bomb inside a large factory is likely to result in the death of many whether the intention was there or not. Otherwise a murderer might argue that he had his eyes closed when he pulled the trigger and thus cannot be held responsible for the death of the man he shot at point blank range. Actions have consequences. Idiotic actions have unintended consequences.”
“The only problem,” said Dr Watson, “is that with the other stories there was one suspect who was known to someone. In your story the culprit is unknown.”
“I did not say he was unknown,” replied the Colonel. “Only that he remained at large.”
Dr Watson conceded the point.
The Singing Wolf thanked the colonel and looked at the Countess. “Your turn,” she said.
There was something in the dark flash of the eyes that alerted the Countess to the fact her hostess was looking forward to her story with uncommon interest. The Countess had several murder stories she could pull out of her weird grab bag of worldly adventures, having travelled widely and having been exposed to situations both strange and dangerous. But she intuited something intensely personal in tonight’s recount and decided to stay true to theme.
“My story is set in Australia. A group of people go for a picnic to a place called Hanging Rock – it is an extraordinary place, not dis-similar to the rock on which Chanteloup is perched. It is also the setting for the supernatural disappearance of three girls on Valentine’s Day several years before my story is set. While the picnickers picnic in the shade of a gum tree a tiger snake bites one of the women. She consequently dies. She was bitten on the hand. The snake was inside the picnic hamper. Now, since the hamper had a lid it would have been impossible for the snake to have slithered inside. It must have been placed there by someone who wanted one of the picnickers to die. The snake was not able to discriminate between victims. It bit the first hand that went into the basket. Was the murderer successful? The wealthy niece of the woman who died married a handsome rogue shortly after the tragic picnic. She would never have contemplated marriage if her aunt had not died. The rogue was not present at the picnic but the hamper had been a Valentine’s Day gift from him to the niece the day before the picnic. The question is: did he place the snake inside the basket? Did he wish to kill the young woman who had turned down his initial marriage proposal? Or did he know the aunt would fuss as was her wont and pay the price with her life?”
“An interesting story, Countess Varvara,” said the Singing Wolf. “Did the young woman marry the handsome rogue knowing he may have orchestrated the death of her aunt?”
“No, she was overcome by grief and was not able to think clearly. It was about three years later when the possibility caught up with her. By then it was too late - her husband had also died.”
The clock chimed the ninth hour when the Singing Wolf commenced her tale.
“My story is set in Switzerland. It involves two men, two murders and two murderers. It is a story of intrigue, arch enemies and a fight to the death between two powerful men – not physically powerful but intellectually powerful. One man sets a trap for the other and lures him to a treacherous spot where he plans to murder him, at the same time exposing himself to grave danger since the man he intends to kill also plans to kill him. When the two men finally confront each other they battle it out, neither wishing to fail in the attempt to kill the other, determined to succeed even if it means suicide. In the struggle they both fall to their deaths into an abyss. No bodies are ever recovered. And then several years later, rumours start circulating that one of the men has survived. How? It seems impossible! And yet the rumours persist and grow louder! Will the survivor return to public life? Will he be charged with murder? He cannot claim self-defence since his actions were pre-meditated. What will he do? What s
hould he do? Will anyone seek to avenge the death of the other man? Will one murder beget another murder and so on ad infinitum until there is no one left who cares? Is one murder ever enough?”
9
Nest of Vipers
Dr Watson listened to the wind hurling itself against the ramparts of Chanteloup. He felt under siege and full of fear. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the Countess came to his bedroom. She arrived a few minutes after ten.
“Nest of vipers,” he hissed as she tip-toed across to the four-poster, navigating her way using the red glow from the fire.
“Keep your voice down,” she warned.
“No one will hear me – the walls in this wing are three feet thick.”
“That should keep the vipers out.”
“The vipers are inside already,” he said peevishly. “To tell you the truth, I was feeling relaxed until that last story. What did you make of it?”
She sat on the end of his bed and wrapped a quilt around her shoulders to keep warm. “There was only one thing I could make of it – it was a reference to Sherlock.”
“If our hostess is trying to put the wind up me she has succeeded. I feel rattled. I’d like to put it down to the rockslide and that howler battering the walls but I’m spooked. I think we need to give serious consideration to fleeing this place at first light. We can grab four horses from the stable and make a run for it to Lourdes. The luggage can be sent on later.”
“What? We flee across lawless terrain rife with roaming brigands? That’s not a plan, that’s a deathwish!”
“What’s the alternative? Stay here and end up like the Cathars – a footnote in history: Here lies the final resting place of Dr John Watson and Countess Varvara Volodymyrovna. I read that some Cathars were walled alive inside caves and were never seen again. They were the lucky ones. The rest got barbecued and ended up as appetisers for wolves. I think a sprint across bandit territory by comparison is a walk in the park.”