by Anna Lord
The well room came next. The pulley with the bucket attached would have made it difficult to shove a dead body down without some sort of help. The water was clear and cold. Nothing had tainted the water supply. The cistern below was probably immense but there was no access except through the well-head.
Though it was barely mid-afternoon, the next level was drear and dark so they lit some hurricane lamps and descended some dank stairs. The wine cellar was cavernous but sparingly stocked. They reminded themselves that only one occupant normally lived here. Some fresh cases that had recently arrived lay about unopened. They were not big enough to hide anything larger than a dog and none looked as if they had been tampered with.
“Here’s a Chateau d’Yquem,” said Prince Orczy, blowing a layer of dust from the side of the bottle. “We’ll take this with us.”
“I’ll grab this cognac,” said von Gunn. “The other bottle is getting low. There’s not much here but the quality is good.”
“Let’s leave the bottles here,” suggested von Gunn. “We can come back for them.”
The dungeons came next, a series of small cells. A vile stench made them feel sick. The narrow dark stinking corridor opened into a torture chamber with all the usual grisly toys: iron chair, iron maiden, strappado, Judas cradle, heretic’s fork and Procrustean bed. They tried not to think of the poor wretches who had ended their days here at the sadistic whim of religious fanatics. Some must simply have gone mad listening to the horrific screams of fellow human beings, women and children as well as men.
“Do you think that story about the hidden Cathar loot is true?” asked the Prince, peering closely at some scratches in the wall, trying to make out the name of someone who wanted to be remembered for their suffering, for their faith, for their death.
“Do you mean in general or specifically related to the Singing Wolf?”
“Let’s take the general first.”
“Yes, certainly, the Cathars knew they were going to be tortured so why would they enrich their torturers? The Inquisitors showed no mercy to heretics rich or poor. They were in it for the fun. Wealth was something that mattered to their Catholic masters in Rome, not to them. The Cathars had time to hide their riches so it makes sense that they would.”
“All right, the specific.”
Von Gunn looked around the grotesque chamber and gave a shudder. “I never really believed it. I always thought it was just a fairy story put about by hopeless romantics. But this place, and I don’t just mean this sickening chamber we are standing in, but this whole mountain certainly makes one believe such stories could be true. Yes, it is possible the Singing Wolf bought Chanteloup as a personal refuge and stumbled upon a hidden hoard of gold and jewels.”
“The fact she retired early from the opera lends credence to the fairy story. I’ll check the cells. You keep checking in here.”
Clumps of mouldering straw had gathered in the corners. Von Gunn gave each pile a quick prod with his silver-topped walking stick. But the only things hiding in the straw were cockroaches, rats and vermin.
They retrieved their bottles and followed another set of stairs that wound back up and began to breathe easier knowing they were leaving the chamber of horror behind them. A turning on the stairs led them into an armoury crammed full of medieval weaponry, rusty armour, and spare furniture. This took a little longer to check but the result was the same. The bedrooms of the four servants from Biarritz came next and once again revealed nothing of interest. Further along was the room where the old caretaker couple slept. It was part of the kitchen complex and they could smell food cooking. It was oddly reassuring. The old man and woman must have had a daughter at some stage because there was a second room adjoining their own with a child’s cot and a chest full of girl’s clothes. Later, when Prince Orczy questioned Almaric and Hortense they looked sadly at each other, hung their heads and fell mute. Out of sympathy, he let the matter drop.
The two men took it upon themselves to quiz Milo when they came across him while checking the back stairs that Inez had mentioned during her questioning. The lobby boy was bringing up a bucket of water from the well and carrying it through to the scullery where Desi was washing up the platters from lunch. The glasses from the night before were standing on a wooden sideboard. Each goblet was a rare specimen of beautiful coloured glass said to have belonged to the Doges of Venice - another priceless horde that Sarazan might have made off with had he been motivated by plunder. And what brigand was not?
“When did you last see your mistress?” von Gunn put abruptly to the lobby boy.
The boy picked up on the blunt tone and shifted uneasily. He was accustomed to being spoken to harshly. He had hardened himself to the demeaning insults of men, for it was mostly men, and no longer resented the servility that was his lot in life, but he had not failed to notice the strange goings-on all morning starting with the failure of the other servants to turn up for duty and it made him nervous. He knew at once it meant more toil for him but it also made him feel queer in his stomach when the foreign lady came down to the kitchen before lunch. Such ladies did not usually visit kitchens. He quickly resigned himself to being back where he started when his own mother turned him out the door - turning the spit in a sweltering kitchen, sweating so much he almost passed out, smoke burning his eyes, cleaning out the hot ash, flecks of soot stabbing what was left of his eyeballs, laying fires at the crack of dawn, carting wood and water until his blisters wept and his hands were red raw with pus and bleeding sores. He had not spoken to Desi. What could he say? She was scared too. He could see it in her coal-black eyes. There was no point speaking to the old couple. They talked only together in hushed tones in a dialect of their own. And he had seen the men going in and out of the rooms, even into his own little airless chamber which he shared with Velazquez, and then Desi’s too. And the men walking along the walls, as if searching for something they had lost. With a sudden sense of sickening shock he realized what they were looking for.
“I did not see her from the time we arrived here at this place, signor.”
Von Gunn was not convinced. “You did not see her in the evening?”
“No, signor, I was put to work in the kitchens and that is where I stayed.”
“You did not help with the bags?”
“No, signor, the other servants took the bags to the rooms because they knew where to take them. They prepared the baths and the fires too. I did not leave the kitchens.”
“Did you carry wood into the great hall last night?”
“No signor, I was told plentiful wood was there already.”
“What about this morning?”
“Yes, signor, I carted wood to the great hall this morning and laid the kindling to start the fire but I did not see the mistress.”
“You did not help with clearing the plates last night?”
“No, signor, Velazquez and Inez served the dinner and cleared the plates. I stayed in the kitchens.”
Prince Orczy interrupted. “What is the point of this line of questioning, von Gunn? You are barking up the wrong tree. The boy was stuck down here in the kitchens. He has told you so three times already. How many times do you need to hear it? My throat is parched. It’s time for a drink.”
Von Gunn grunted something unsavoury that it was better for the Prince not to hear. “Not yet. I want to speak to that ugly fat Negress. If you want to hurry things along then go and question the old man and his wife.”
“What would they know?” argued the Prince hotly while gazing thirstily at his bottle of wine. “One is half deaf and the other half blind. If they suspected foul play regarding their mistress they would have said something by now.”
Von Gunn marched off to the scullery where Desi was drying the dishes with a linen cloth. She had heard the exchange between the two men. She had heard all that Milo had said. She knew it was her turn to be interrogated. She resolved to show no fear, nor resentment, which was trickier for she had heard the gross insult.
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��When did you last see your mistress?”
The German could not see the point of varying his interrogation or altering his tone. He was not very imaginative and the idea of catching flies using either vinegar or honey never occurred to him – if he wanted to swat a fly he smashed it with whatever was to hand.
A precious Limoges dish almost slipped between slippery fat fingers but Desi steadied in time. “I saw the mistress last when we arrived here at this place and I came down to the kitchens.”
“You did not see her in the evening?”
“No, monsieur.”
“You did not help to clear the table?”
“No, monsieur.”
“You did not help with the unpacking of her bags?”
“No, monsieur.”
“What about this morning?”
“No, monsieur.”
Von Gunn scowled. “No, monsieur, what?”
Desi looked momentarily confused. “No, monsieur, I did not see the mistress this morning.”
Von Gunn was growing increasingly exasperated. “Do you think it odd that your mistress has not been seen since last night?”
“No, monsieur.”
“You do not think it odd?”
“No, monsieur, I do not think.”
Von Gunn stomped out of the scullery cursing stupid blacks, especially the female of the species. Slavery should never have been abolished. The world would rue the day. He found Orczy interrogating the old couple and he could see by their averted eyes that they had something to hide. Orczy could see it too and flashed him a warning to shut-up. He leaned against the door jamb and listened.
“How often did your mistress come to Chanteloup?”
The old man briefly lifted his gaze, his eyes looked cloudy and filmy – he must have been the one half blind and his wife the one half deaf.
“Whenever it suited her to come, monsieur.”
“Did she ever bring anyone with her?”
The old man shook his head.
“What did she do when she stayed here?”
The old man seemed not to understand the question.
Orczy repeated it.
“She is mistress of Chanteloup – she does as it pleases her.”
“Yes, yes,” said Orczy impatiently, changing direction. “Do you have any idea where she might have gone?”
The old man shook his head.
“Was she in the habit of going walking or horse riding?”
The old man shook his head.
Von Gunn goose-stepped toward the kitchen table. “Look at me when I address you. Are there any secret tunnels inside the castle?”
The old man lifted his eyes without lifting his head, neither he nor his wife flinched. Von Gunn had been watching carefully for a tell-tale sign of guilt and felt instantly disappointed. It is possible the old woman did not hear him clearly though he had made a point of speaking volubly. The old man struck him was a wily old retainer, loyal unto death, part of the old medieval school of servants who could be relied upon to take a secret to the grave. They did not make servants like that anymore. His servants were a lazy shiftless lot, no sense of loyalty or pride in their work. The Countess’s maid and manservant looked as if they were cut from the same loyal cloth as these two. Serfs were born that way. He had heard that some had refused to forego serving their masters even after being granted their freedom. It is little wonder the word slaves was derived from Slavs. So many were sold into slavery by their rulers they peopled the world with blonde hair and blue eyes. The old man and woman had probably been here at Chanteloup all their lives. If there was a secret tunnel they would know of it, but how to pry it out of them – that was the question.
“How long until dinner is served?” asked the Prince, always thinking of gratifying his immediate needs and baser instincts.
The old woman turned to look at the piglet turning on the spit. “Within the hour, monsieur.”
The two men turned their backs on the kitchen without realizing the old woman had no difficulty hearing the question that was put to no one in particular.
11
Cherchez la Femme
“How long have you been acquainted with Dr Watson?”
The Countess did not fear Moriarty’s question. It was not her association with the doctor that she need have any qualms about.
“Two months.”
He looked surprised. “May I ask how you met?”
“We met at an unrolling party in Belgravia. It was quite a disaster for our hostess, Lady Fanshawe. The Egyptian mummy who was thought to be female at the commencement of proceedings turned out to be neither female nor an Egyptian mummy – just a cadaver from an unconsecrated cemetery somewhere in Southwark.”
He didn’t pick up on the topic of Egyptian mummies though she had provided him with the perfect opening and it was a hot topic among the London beau monde. She braced for further probing.
“It seems an unlikely friendship.”
“Most good friendships are.”
He found something interesting in the speed of the return statement. “There is hope for another good friendship then.”
“Between us, you mean?”
“Yes, I’m sure I have even less in common with you than Dr Watson.”
She laughed lightly. “In that case we shall be lifelong friends.”
They had reached the west wing where the four men had their bedchambers. At the end of the corridor were a garderobe and an iron-studded door that opened onto the ramparts. The rooms were large for they must have originally garrisoned small armies of men who could be quickly mobilized to fend off an attack. They were also devoid of architectural ornamentation, but the austerity was disguised by sumptuously embroidered bed hangings, Flemish tapestries, Turkey rugs, a richness of painted Italian furniture and a large stone fireplace. Each of the bedrooms varied little in size and shape. They did not take long to search. There were no secret doorways. A quick check under the bed, inside storage chests, armoires, and travelling trunks revealed no hidden body. It was the personal items that distinguished one man’s room from another.
Moriarty did not proclaim: This is my bedchamber. He simply allowed her to guess from the clothing and male accoutrements. She remembered his gold tie pin shaped like a shamrock and the monogrammed gold cufflinks: engraved JIM – James Isambard Moriarty – Jim short for James, a playful wink at his name and initials in one.
The garderobe was essentially a walk-in cloak closet with a hole in the floor which angled away from the castle walls in order to drain the effluent and excrement. The hole was fitted part way down with a heavy iron grate so that even if an enemy combatant could scale the vertical walls he could not gain entry into the castle. Their hostess had placed a wooden seat around the hole for comfort and provided a porcelain bowl, a ewer of rose-scented water and a stack of linen towels. Bath water was used to flush the garderobes at the end of each day and the stones were luminous with centuries-old fluorescent green moss.
“November is an unusual time to sojourn in Biarritz,” commented Moriarty as they crossed the great hall and made their way to the east wing.
Here again were four large bedchambers and a garderobe coming off a long corridor with an iron-studded door at the end opening onto the ramparts. Dr Watson’s room came first, followed by that of the Countess, then her maid and manservant. She always made a point of having her servants sleep as close as possible to her own bedchamber. If there was no adjoining dressing room with day bed, she insisted on a box room or small secondary bedroom. If she stayed in a hotel she reserved extra rooms on the same floor so that her servants could remain nearby. If only one room was available, Fedir and Xenia pretended to be husband and wife. They were in fact brother and sister and felt no shame in sharing. They had been with her for as long as she could remember, acting as childhood companions, bodyguards and servants as the need arose.
“Dr Watson has been battling a chest infection for some time and I thought a rest cure in Biarritz might be just th
e thing before winter set in.”
“He is lucky to have found such a glamorous travelling companion to look out for his health. I am jealous.”
“I’m sure you have had your fair share of glamorous travelling companions, including those who cared for your health?”
“It would be disingenuous to pretend otherwise, nevertheless, I am still jealous.”
The Countess always found candour disarming and dangerously attractive. That’s probably what attracted her to her roguish husband. Such types were rare. More common were flatterers, gigolos and playboys who dissembled for a living and elevated disingenuousness to an artform. Her late husband would have called them bullshit artists! Moriarty was also intelligent, another dangerous quality in a man. It rendered him doubly dangerous. She warned herself against falling for his easy Irish charm. He had done enough probing. It was her turn.
“What brought you to Biarritz?”
His response was laconic, open and honest, yet did not give much away. “I could say the weather but the west wind off the Atlantic at this time of year would soon prove the lie. I could say the gambling but there are better casinos. I could say the opera but there are better operas. To be honest, the four of us, meaning Orczy, Reichenbach, von Gunn and myself, always come to Biarritz at this time of year.”
“You always stay at the Hotel Louve?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you known the Singing Wolf?”
“Seven years.”
“So you have been coming to Biarritz for seven years?”
“Yes.”
“And the other three men?”
“The same.”
It was time to take a risk. “Are you all in love with the Singing Wolf?”
She expected a heated denial and was surprised when he confirmed her daring question instead. “We used to be, but I do not believe that is the case any longer, well, not for me anyhow, and I think I can speak for the others when I say they are no longer in her thrall.”