by Anna Lord
“I saw her last when I helped to serve the dinner.”
“What did you do after that?” put the Prince.
“I went up to her private apartment to unpack her travel bags and turn down her bed. I used the back stairs that the old man showed me. They lead up to the south tower from the room with the well. I did not cross the great hall.”
“I can confirm the bags were unpacked and the dresses and accoutrements arranged as they should be,” said the Countess. “The bed had been turned down and the pillows fluffed up.”
Inez looked gratefully at the Countess.
Von Gunn went next. “You did not see your mistress this morning?”
“No signor, I was told not to disturb my mistress until I was summoned. No summons came. I was busy in the kitchen helping the old woman to prepare the breakfast.”
“Do you have any idea where your mistress might be?” Dr Watson used a less interrogative tone.
Inez shook her head and her vibrant dark locks seemed to take on a life of their own.
“No signor, I do not know where my mistress could be.”
Her eyes filled up with tears and she suddenly looked frightened.
The Countess’s tone was sympathetic. “Have you ever visited Chanteloup before?”
“Never, when the mistress came here I remained at the Hotel Louve.”
“Are you from these parts?”
“I was born in Seville. When my mistress came to Seville with the opera and saw me dancing barefoot in the street she gave me the job at the hotel in Biarritz.”
Moriarty trained his sights on the handsome toreador.
“When did you last see your mistress?”
Velazquez opened and closed his mouth but no words came out.
“It’s all right,” said the Irishman, “this is not the Inquisition. We are simply trying to establish where your mistress might have gone.”
Velazquez looked only slightly reassured but this time he managed to get out some words. “I saw her last when I served the dinner.”
“Are you sure?” questioned the Baron. “Weren’t you clearing the glasses at the end of the evening?”
Velazquez began to shake, even his voice sounded shaky. “Oh, yes, signor, I remember now I saw her on the chair where the Countess is now seated.”
The Baron appeared satisfied with the amendment. Bad nerves can make a man forgetful.
Prince Orczy went next. “What did you do after you cleared the glasses?”
“I took them down the stairs to the room where Desi was washing the cups and the little plates then I went to my room.”
“Did you see your mistress this morning?” continued the Prince.
Velazquez shook his handsome head and clamped both hands together to minimize the trembling.
“Is this your first visit to Chanteloup?” asked Moriarty.
“Yes, signor.”
“Your mistress never brought you with her when she came to stay here?” checked Moriarty.
“No, signor.”
The Countess asked the penultimate question. “Are you from these parts?”
“No, señora, I was born in Pamplona. I have never visited these parts before yesterday.”
The final question was posed by Dr Watson.
“Where do you think your mistress may have gone?”
Velazquez looked genuinely baffled and not a little scared, his voice had a discordant quiver, as if he’d strummed the wrong note on his guitar.
“I…I cannot say, signor. I…I do not know.”
“Thank you,” dismissed von Gunn curtly. “You can both go back to your duties.”
Moriarty waited just long enough for the two servants to depart then said what they were all thinking. “Well, that left us exactly where we started.”
“None the wiser,” agreed the doctor morosely.
“Is anyone else thinking what I’m thinking?” said Prince Orczy.
“Stop being cryptic!” rebuked the Baron, feeling suddenly short-tempered.
“I’m thinking about that rockslide,” elaborated the Prince.
“Yes,” agreed von Gunn. “I was thinking it too.”
Dr Watson looked surprised. “You think our hostess may be buried under all those rocks.”
“It’s possible,” said von Gunn.
“No it’s not.”
The five men turned to look at the one lady amongst them who had spoken.
“The rockslide happened before we all said goodnight.”
The men all kicked themselves for having forgotten it.
“All right,” persisted von Gunn, throwing down the gauntlet, “she’s not exactly buried under the rocks but she’s somewhere in that pile of rocks.”
The Countess picked up the challenge.
“Was the portcullis down this morning?”
“Yes,” they all said.
“Was the gate barred?”
Yes, again.
“In that case, last night she must have climbed up to the ramparts and abseiled down the other side in the dark and after managing that feat she then traversed the fallen rocks but somehow slipped beneath some loose boulders without setting off another rockslide - and all for what purpose? To escape a place she clearly loved. Look how beautifully this place is furnished. Look how much consideration has gone into every detail. The placement of every item is harmonious and pleasing. The furniture is not grand, not expensive, but it is supremely comfortable. This is a much-loved home, a haven, a place of refuge and sanctuary. Note the abundance of votive candles and ikons – it has the ambience of a private convent.”
As they were contemplating the monastic decor the clock stuck twelve and they retreated to their rooms to freshen up. Lunch was waiting for them when they returned. It took the form of platters of bread, goose pate, rabbit terrine, cold smoked ham, cheese, olives and fruit. They helped themselves. There was no point attempting genial conversation. Their minds were on one thing and one thing only.
“It could be a practical joke,” offered Dr Watson, ever the optimist.
“She did not have that sort of sense of humour,” rebuffed the Baron.
“She was definitely not a practical joker,” seconded the Prince.
“In that case,” asserted Moriarty, “she either met with an accident during the night or she met with foul play.”
No one said anything after that. They all needed some time to digest the implication. An accident was a distinct possibility. It was also the better option because the alternative implied they had a murderer in their midst. Discounting the two elderly caretakers and the Countess’s servants that left the four servants from the Hotel Louve - if not them then it had to be someone seated at the table.
An accident was debated. Their hostess may have leaned too far over the ramparts and fallen to her death, or some stones may have come loose as she leaned against a parapet. She may have fallen down some stairs which they were yet to discover. There were several plausible possibilities and they explored them all.
Foul play was more awkward, although Prince Orczy, ever the gambler, immediately put forward the most palatable winner.
“My money is on that bandit, Sarazan.”
The Countess challenged the assumption. “How did he gain entry? The gate was locked and the portcullis was down,” she reminded.
Herr von Gunn cleared his gullet and raked his stubbly wheatfield. “I own twelve castles and I can assure you that every castle has a secret tunnel. I do not believe castle builders ever erected a pile of stones without including at least one secret tunnel. Some were so ingeniously incorporated into a buttressed wall or a fake wellhead they were not discovered until a castle actually fell into total ruin suddenly exposing a large drain or postern that seemed to have no purpose.”
“Accepting that Sarazan entered via a secret tunnel, presumably during the night, and kidnapped our hostess,” reasoned Moriarty, “it seems odd that he did not slit our throats while we slept. And though we agree the furnishings
here are not lavish I’d wager the ikons are priceless and the gold and silver candlesticks as valuable as anything found in Versailles. And we all have personal items amongst our luggage – gold pocket watches, diamond tie pins, silver cigarette cases and so on. No, I don’t buy into that theory.”
“Very well,” postulated von Gunn. “Perhaps it was not Sarazan who came in, but our hostess who went out. Posterns were escape routes in times of siege.”
“But why would she go?” demanded the Baron, banging his fist on the table. “We are not at war and we are not under siege.”
“Not yet,” said the Prince half in jest, but even as he said it he felt a cold shiver run up his spine, which must have been contagious for the others felt the same shiver infect their own backbones.
The Countess waited until they all shuffled back to the sitting area for coffee and cigars and had rid themselves of fanciful theories.
“There is only one thing to be done. We must organize a thorough search of the castle. May I suggest we search in pairs to avoid any possibility of overlooking, er, some vital clue.” What she meant to say was: covering something up.
The catch in her throat was duly noted. Suspicions were not yet mounting, but the first seed had taken root. If their hostess had met with foul play there was no escaping the fact that one of the four men was probably hiding something. Last night they had discussed getting away with murder. Had one of those stories touched a raw nerve? Had the long-ago killer suddenly realized that his crime was not a secret? Did the Singing Wolf visit one of the men in the night and tell him she knew his secret? Did she threaten to expose him? Did he decide to silence her then and there?
“Each pair should take a different part of the castle so that we don’t double up,” proposed Dr Watson, who knew he would be unable to relax until the mystery of their missing hostess was cleared up.
“I think it might be a good idea if we don’t go with someone we are familiar with,” added the Irishman, “to avoid any accusations of collusion. I’ll go with the Countess.”
“That was a bit fast,” argued the Prince.
“I cannot help it if you are slow off the mark, Orczy. You can go with von Gunn.”
“Why von Gunn?” the Prince challenged, scowling.
“Because you and Reichenbach are known to move in the same social circle, whereas you only see von Gunn once a year in Biarritz, moreover, Reichenbach is good friends with both you and von Gunn, same as me, who is likewise good friends with all three of you, so it makes sense for me to go with the Countess and Reichenbach to pair up with Dr Watson.”
His reasoning was quick as well as clever and by the time anyone had had a chance to think about the logic behind it the moment had passed. Further argument was a waste of time.
The great hall was immediately eliminated from the search. It was in effect one great room of double height with a vaulted roof and just the one gigantic column in the centre. Once any niches had been discounted and the furniture checked there was nowhere a body could be concealed.
Dr Watson and Baron Reichenbach opted to search the outside, including the stables, barns, outhouses, ramparts and courtyards. They would also check the outer perimeter using binoculars.
Herr von Gunn and Prince Orczy opted to search the domestic rooms which included the kitchens, storerooms, laundry room, well room, cellar, armoury, dungeon and torture chamber. This section was vast and contained more chambers than the two wings and the south tower put together.
That left the east and west wing and the private apartments of the Singing Wolf to the Countess and the Irishman.
Chateau de Chanteloup was not a large castle. The size had been limited by the plateau on which it was built. It was not an exercise in grandiosity, not a statement of majesty and power, it was predominantly a refuge in a time of religious persecution when war was conducted via hand-to-hand combat and siege engines. Nevertheless, they all agreed it would take the rest of the afternoon. They would not meet up again until dinnertime.
The ramparts followed the craggy outline of the rocky plateau thus no line was straight for long. The Countess’s description of an eagle with wings outstretched was a good one. In fact, it came as no surprise to find an eagle riding the thermals. What was surprising was that the great bird was not above their heads but below where they were standing.
“It is not often one looks down at an eagle,” marvelled Dr Watson.
Reichenbach trained his binoculars on the bird of prey. “You should come to Switzerland. I can show you some nature scenes that will take your breath away. You will not only stand higher than the eagle, you will feel like you can fly.”
“I have been to Switzerland,” replied the other dryly, a catch in his throat. “In fact, I have been to a place called Reichenbach Falls.”
“A tremendous waterfall, named after a mountaineering forebear of mine, but I imagine it holds no good memories for you,” the Baron commiserated. “I understand your friend, Mr Holmes, met his end there.”
Dr Watson turned to study the black eagle soaring en plein air. He was not very good at dissembling and needed to avert his gaze lest his blurry eyes betray him. “Yes, I intend to make a pilgrimage there some time soon.”
“You must let me know when you are coming. You can stay at my summer chalet on Lac Lucerne. I can show you some marvellous sights. Are you interested in fishing?”
A passion for fishing was not something the doctor needed to feign. He nodded enthusiastically.
“Wonderful! Wonderful!” declared the Baron. “The stones here are loose but none show any signs of recently falling away. Shall we walk on?”
The crenellations were likewise largely intact and the height of the walls, designed to shield archers, made a mockery of the idea that anyone might lean over and fall accidentally to their death. The black eagle was still riding the current of air below them, it seemed to be following them around the ramparts. Baron Reichenbach thrust the binoculars at Dr Watson.
“Here, take a look. Our hostess, known by all and sundry as the Singing Wolf, occasionally went by the name Iolaire Dubh. It means black eagle. I heard a story once that she was raised by eagles and wolves. I think she made it up herself to add to her own aura of mystery. It was the sort of thing she would do. I hope this eagle is not going to drop a trout!” He gave a hearty chuckle.
Dr Watson was grateful to have an excuse to look away. “How did you meet her?”
“It was about seven years ago at the Passion Play in Oberammergau near Innsbruck. She was performing on the stage. We met afterwards at a party thrown by Baron Adelbert Gruner. Are you acquainted with Gruner?”
The doctor shook his head.
“More’s the pity for you! He is a true Renaissance man. His palace near Schwanenberg puts the palace of Mad Ludwig in the shade. Neuschwanstein is a mere bagatelle compared to Gruner’s piece de resistance.”
The doctor always blanched whenever the term Renaissance man was trotted out to describe someone. Renaissance men such as those from the clan Medici were no better than gangsters and thugs, the looters and murderers of their day, no different from Sarazan, just more successful. The artists who created their masterpieces were treated no better than slaves and most died in terrible poverty.
“Our mysterious missing hostess seems like a true Renaissance woman,” commented the doctor airily in an attempt to elicit more information. “How wealthy do you imagine she is?”
“I imagine she is extraordinarily wealthy,” admitted the Baron, pausing to gaze over the parapet at the steep terrain below.
“I suppose she gained her wealth through her singing?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” agreed the Baron unconvincingly, sounding like a Medici Pope claiming he earned his wealth through the power of prayer. “Although there is a story she found some Cathar loot but it puts me in mind of that story about the eagles and wolves.”
Dr Watson handed back the binoculars. “More myth that truth?”
“Designed to make
her sound mysterious.”
“I say, wouldn’t it be interesting if it turned out that the story was true and she found the treasure here inside Chanteloup!”
The two men laughed and walked on. The black eagle cleaving the sky was now a pinprick in the distance. The only thing following them round was the shadow of Chanteloup like the arm of a sundial casting its long shadow on the flat featureless plain below.
The steep mountainside was matted with low-growing saxifrage, tufts of grass and patches of winter wildflowers. The few trees that had managed to take root between cracks in the rock barely clung to life, spindly examples of their robust botanical cousins. There was no sign of a dead body, although they did spot a pack of wolves resting among the rocks and checked carefully to make sure they had not recently devoured something human. There was no sign of any bones and no sign of torn clothing.
Upon completing their inspection of the ramparts and immediate outskirts, Dr Watson and Baron Reichenbach turned their sights to the stables, barns and outbuildings. Since the servants had not arrived, it fell to them to feed and water the horses and donkeys. They took the opportunity to scour the stalls and pens. They moved through the outer bailey, the inner bailey, and the various courtyards. They checked the wood yard, sheds, workshops, coops, and last of all, the kitchen courtyard which was by far the most cluttered. They did not find anything that led them to believe the Singing Wolf had been killed. That is not to say they could swear to having examined every inch of ground with a fine tooth comb. If someone had wanted to dispose of a dead body they could have managed it by stuffing it in a barrel and nailing the lid or burying it under a pile of rubble – but the effort would have outweighed the necessity. And it certainly ruled out the hand of Sarazan.
Herr von Gunn and Prince Orczy started their search in the kitchens. There were plenty of nooks and crannies to choose from. Unfortunately none of the hidey-holes was stuffed with a dead body. Most of the storage space in the dairy room, meat room, plate room, and so on, consisted of open shelving. They could see at a glance what was contained within. The larder and cool room were stacked from floor to ceiling with bags of flour and sugar, jars of oil and olives, and boxes of vegetables, but no dead body.