The Curse of the Singing Wolf

by Anna Lord

  “Yet you still come to Biarritz?”

  “You find that curious?”

  “I do.”

  “Men are creatures of habit, most are not very imaginative, they tend to invent a tradition and then stick to it as if their lives depend upon it. Our journey to Biarritz could best be described as a pilgrimage, the original purpose of which is lost in the mists of time.”

  “You make is sound like an act of worship.”

  “Is this Dr Watson’s room?”

  “Yes.”

  “I do not believe the doctor is concealing a corpse but let us take a quick look in the interests of thoroughness.”

  Dr Watson was an excessively tidy man. It probably stemmed from his military service and medical background. Compared to the previous four rooms where clothes were in slight disarray, hanging over the backs of chairs, cufflinks and tie pins scattered on top of chests of drawers, boots and shoes tossed haphazardly into corners, this room was in perfect order. To be fair, Fedir enjoyed acting as valet to the doctor and had tidied up anything the doctor may have omitted to put away.

  “Dr Watson travels light,” observed Moriarty, opening and closing drawers in a desultory way. “Did you travel from Southampton directly to Biarritz?”

  “No, we travelled from Glasgow. We were staying in York after visiting Scotland. Dr Watson was instrumental in solving the Lammermoor Golf Course murders in the Borders and the Penny Dreadful murders in York. You may have heard of them. The doctor used to partner the famous consulting detective, Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

  She had decided to come clean. A man like Colonel Moriarty would check up on her relationship with Dr Watson the moment he could get to a telegraph office and put his bloodhounds to the scent. If she didn’t mention the murders they had solved together he would immediately know she had something to hide. She tried to sound wide-eyed and in awe of her travelling companion, the second fiddle in an amateur sleuthing theatrical.

  “I’m aware of his attachment to Mr Holmes. I don’t know if you are aware that my eldest brother, Professor Moriarty, was instrumental in the death of Mr Holmes.”

  “I believe I read something about it while I was travelling with my step-aunt. The name did not mean anything to me at the time. I was wondering when you first introduced yourself if the man was a relation of yours.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  “Should it bother me?”

  “Surely that is up to you.”

  “Let’s go into my bedchamber while I think about it.”

  He paused before following.

  She sat on the end of the bed and watched while he opened and closed the oak storage chests and fruitwood armoires. He seemed to take pleasure in fingering her silken corsetry, frilly petticoats and lacy under-garments, her millinery less so.

  “May I ask where you are storing your large travelling trunks, not that I am suggesting you are hiding a dead body in one of them? It’s just that I noticed you did not travel light.”

  “I never travel light. They are stored in the next two bedchambers, occupied by my maid and manservant.”

  “They always travel with you?”

  “Always. I’m a little surprised you and your three compatriots do not have your own valets.”

  “As a general rule we do travel with our valets.”

  “But not when you come to Biarritz?”

  “That’s right.”

  There were three words that did not sound as pushy in French as they did in English – how, what, why. “Comment?”

  He gave a careless shrug. “Velazquez is well-versed in taking care of our needs. We are all simple men at heart who enjoy a break from pomp and fuss. And we did not expect to end up here at Chanteloup.”

  Her inflection rose. “You did not expect it?”

  His eyebrows registered her scepticism. “Did you?”

  “Me? No, certainly not. The doctor and I arrived by chance at the last moment and so found ourselves coming along for the ride, but I’m surprised you can say the same.”

  “You are starting to intrigue me, please go on.”

  “You do not think the fire in the kitchen at the Hotel Louve was contrived?”

  “Now I really am intrigued,” he said. “You think it was deliberately lit?”

  “The thought crossed my mind.”

  “To what end?”

  “To bring you here to Chanteloup.”

  He appeared slightly stunned and sat down on the bed beside her. “You think the Singing Wolf lit the fire?”

  “It could only be her since she is the only one who could have arranged for us to come here to her mountain refuge. If someone else had lit the fire, say a staff member or one of your friends, we would all have been forced to transfer to another hotel.”

  He began nodding. “Yes, yes, I see your reasoning. It could only be her. But why?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest.”

  “It must have something to do with the four of us.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “There must be a link, a common denominator, something our hostess wanted to achieve by bringing the four of you here. Something she could not do in Biarritz. Can you think what that might be?”

  “Murder comes to mind but…” He paused and didn’t continue the sentence. Whether he continued the thought behind it is another matter.

  She picked up where he left off. “But then why not push you from the train or shoot you in the back during the attack by Sarazan or poison your dinner?”

  He regarded her in a fresh light. “I can see now why Dr Watson keeps you to himself.”

  Gently, he cupped her head and trailed kisses down the side of her neck. When he heard the soft purr that told him how much she was enjoying the sensuous assault he pushed up from the bed, a dangerous gleam in his Irish eyes that said: you’ll keep.

  “Let’s check those trunks. I’m starting to take this disappearance seriously.”

  She had no choice but to follow, though a few more minutes wouldn’t have hurt.

  Xenia’s room and Fedir’s room revealed nothing untoward. But they weren’t expecting them to. The same with the garderobe. It was the private apartments of the Singing Wolf that they were most anxious to examine. And it was here they would leave no stone unturned.

  They returned to the great hall and took the spiral stairs inside the south tower that led directly into the main bedchamber. Here, the search began in earnest. They were searching not just for a hidden body now but for a clue. A clue that told them who the Singing Wolf was, where she had come from, where she had disappeared to, and why she had lured them to her private sanctuary.

  The bedchamber of Queen Isabella of Spain or Eleanor of Aquitaine could not have been lovelier than this chamber. The wall hangings told the romantic tale of Le Roman de la Rose. The furniture was of a higher quality than elsewhere, inlaid with mother of pearl and ivory. Ikons abounded between a scatter of votive candles and on the dressing table amongst the silver hair brushes and expensive scent bottles was a framed photo of a baby wearing a christening robe.

  “Did she have a child?” asked the Countess, taking a closer look at the photo.

  Moriarty came to dressing table to glance at the image in question. “Not that I know of.”

  Their eyes met briefly in the looking glass – and that determined dangerous gleam was still evident.

  Inside a jewellery casket there was a painted miniature of a young girl about three years of age, delicately executed, angelic and sweet, the only thing missing was the customary halo.

  “Here’s another image of a child.”

  “The girl is blonde,” he dismissed. “The Singing Wolf was as dark as midnight. It cannot be hers.”

  “How did you meet the Singing Wolf?”

  “We met at the Paris Opera. She was at her peak, singing Aida.”

  “What about Reichenbach – do you know how he met her?”

  “He met her in Oberammergau. She was in the Passion Play.”

  “Wh
at about von Gunn?”

  “He met her at La Scala in Milan.”

  “Orczy?”

  “He met her in St Petersburg. Again at the opera. Admirers flocked to her like flies around a honey pot. There was no shortage of male acolytes worshipping at her feet. We men are weak when it comes to the promise of paradise. Let’s check the connecting rooms. We should go together so that there can be no question of anything being overlooked.”

  There was a circular enfilade of dressing rooms dedicated to daywear, evening dresses, cloaks, furs, hats and shoes. There was even a room dedicated to her operatic costumes, including numerous elaborate headdresses decorated with ostrich plumes and semi-precious jewels. Last in the circle was the luxurious bathroom. The scented bath water had not yet been emptied, flecks of rose petals were still floating on top of the cold soap scum. A large cheval glass with angled wings was attached to one wall so that it provided a triple aspect of the bather. A small wooden door opened into the smallest closet of all which housed the third garderobe. The drop from the latrine followed the angle of the exterior buttress. The hole in the floor had a heavy iron grate draped with moss, same as the others, but thicker. Neither ingress nor egress was possible. A tiny mullioned lancet window sans glass allowed fresh air to circulate freely. It currently served to frame a majestic black eagle and a grey sky melting into infinity.

  They returned to the queenly bedchamber and stood in the centre of the room feeling bewildered. It was as if their hostess had metamorphosed into that rara avis and had flown out that window, which was the only one to face outwards. Perhaps the others had had more luck.

  The Countess was taking one last look around when she noticed something that had escaped her attention when they first entered.

  “That’s odd,” she said.

  Moriarty, who had reached the door, turned back. “What’s odd?”

  “Someone has been in that bed since this morning.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, positive. This morning while you all went to investigate why the servants had not arrived, I came upstairs to inform our hostess. I noticed the bed was perfectly turned back, but had not been slept in. The top sheet had been turned back in a perfect V. The pillows had been perfectly fluffed. Now there is a dent in one of the pillows as if someone has laid their head on it and the sheets and blankets have been slightly ruffled. The perfect V is no longer there.”

  Moriarty swivelled on his heel, he did a complete revolution of 360 degrees. He even scanned the vaulted brick ceiling to check that nothing could be suspended above their heads. He pulled back the Turkey rugs one at a time and checked the wooden floor, crawling on his hands and knees, looking for gaps, unusual joins, or signs of scuff marks on the oak boards.

  “She can’t have vanished into thin air! I’m going to shift the furniture away from the walls. Von Gunn could be right. There might be a secret tunnel after all. You check the bed. Pull back the bedding and check the mattress, the headboard, and underneath for hidden panels.”

  The Countess threw the pillows on the floor and felt her breath catch. At first she thought she was looking at a dead baby, but it was a doll – a beautiful rag doll with a floppy body, a delicately painted face of porcelain and long golden ringlets made from human hair.

  12

  We Are Not Alone

  Countess Volodymyrovna dressed quickly for dinner, choosing something for warmth rather than show, and was waiting for Dr Watson in his room. The discovery of the doll had rattled her and she didn’t know what to make of it. She was certain it had not been under the pillows the first time she went into the bedchamber, though she could not swear to it. But the ruffled bedding she could swear to. It had definitely been mussed up since she had first seen it. The obvious answer was one of the servants. But Fedir and Xenia had assured her none of the servants had left the kitchen except to go briefly into one of the storerooms for provisions.

  Moriarty had been on his hands and knees checking the floorboards and the Countess stripping the bed when Desi appeared. The Negress had looked totally dismayed, as well she might. She could have been excused for thinking two guests had lost their minds. They were behaving like inmates in a lunatic asylum. The Negress appeared genuinely frightened and was preparing to backtrack when Moriarty spotted her ungainly feet.

  “Yes,” he barked, annoyed with himself and his inability to supply any answers as to the whereabouts of their mysterious hostess. “What is it?”

  “Excusez-moi, m…monsieur,” Desi stammered, “I…I have come to empty the bath water. Inez sent me up here. I…I did not expect to find…”

  “Yes, yes,” dismissed Moriarty, noting for the first time the bucket in each hand. “Go right ahead and if you find your mistress under all those rose petals let us know at once.”

  Desi wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. She decided it was safer to err on the side of caution. She poured bucket after bucket down the latrine, wiped down the copper bath, the angled mirror, and returned to the bedchamber to find it free of lunatics. The bedding was still on the floor, the furniture was in disarray, and the rugs were pushed up against the walls. More work! As if there wasn’t enough to do! But she knew if she didn’t do it then she would simply have to trudge up the stairs again later and do it when she was even more tired. She was a strong girl, heavily built, solid and sturdy, with muscles many men would envy. She pushed back the furniture, straightened the rugs, and re-made the bed.

  “Something queer is going on,” said the Countess as soon as Dr Watson returned to his bedchamber. She was seated in a tapestried wing chair, smoking one of her foreign gold-tipped cigarettes. A thin scroll of pungent smoke was spirally vertically up to the ceiling. The doll was resting in her lap.

  “Your capacity for understatement is exceeded only by your inability to see the obvious until it is staring you in the face. Put out that foreign gasper. The smell will linger all night long and play havoc with my breathing.”

  His short tone betrayed his grumpy mood.

  Obligingly, she tossed her cigarette onto the glowing embers. “Did you discover anything?”

  He shed his gloves, hat, scarf, and woollen coat. “I take it by that question you are intending to stay and watch me dress for dinner?”

  She tried to appease his grumpiness. “Fedir put some warm water, a sponge and a towel behind the screen. He also laid out your dinner suit. We can talk while you dress. I promise not to peek.”

  He disappeared behind the painted screen. “Baron Reichenbach and I discovered zilch. During our search he brought up the topic of Reichenbach Falls and invited me to stay at his summer house on Lake Lucerne should I ever decide to make a pilgrimage to the spot where Sherlock met his end. I’m still not sure whether he was mocking me or being serious. We bumped into Orczy and von Gunn in the great hall as we came in. Their search was as fruitless as ours. We were all hoping you and MMMMoriarty – he had trouble pronouncing the name out loud – might have discovered something useful, a clue, a dead body, a way out of this nightmare.”

  “I’m afraid we didn’t discover anything of the sort. We did however find something, but it just begs more questions.”

  He poked his head around the screen. “Okay – I’m all ears.”

  “We found this doll.”

  She held it up and watched him roll his eyes.

  “I hope it’s a ventriloquist’s doll and comes with a ventriloquist who can provide some answers.”

  His pawky humour was doing a poor job of covering up his confusion. Unfortunately, she felt equally confused, and unless Moriarty was a brilliant actor, he was confused too. She decided to run her theory past him.

  “I think the fire in the hotel was deliberately lit to lure the four men to this isolated outpost.”

  “When did this occur to you?”

  “Sometime today, I cannot quite say when. I think the idea had been sitting at the back of mind for several hours before I finally noticed it. When I mentioned it to Moriarty he s
eemed genuinely taken aback. I asked him what motive the Singing Wolf might have had for luring the four of them here and he just said: murder – and then failed to elaborate.”

  “I wouldn’t mind murdering him myself!”

  “He is not his brother’s keeper,” she defended.

  “Made from the same evil mould. Crawled out of the same swamp. I bet he has taken over his brother’s criminal empire. Those four men all have something to hide. Mark my words. Make sure you lock your door at night and keep that pocket pistol of yours handy at all times. Have you still got it on you?”

  She patted her pocket. He looked reassured and his voice took on an incisive inflection.

  “Forget queer! There’s something sinister going on here. Our hostess has disappeared without trace. I think the four of them are behind it. We need to stay alive long enough to get out of here as soon as that rockslide is cleared. In the meantime, don’t hint that we suspect them of anything. Just play along as if the disappearance of our hostess is a complete mystery. You can play the superstitious angle, as if our hostess has turned into an eagle and taken flight. There was a black eagle soaring in the sky today and there is a legend our hostess was raised by eagles.”

  She decided not to argue. “And you?”

  “I will pretend to be totally baffled – although I won’t actually need to do any pretending. I am totally baffled.”

  “Then here’s something else to add to your bafflement. The doll by itself is not significant, except that it was found under a pillow. Now, why would a grown woman keep a doll under her pillow? Furthermore, on the dressing table was a photo of a baby in a christening robe. Moriarty said he and the others have been acquainted with the Singing Wolf for seven years yet he claimed he did not know whether she had ever had a child. A woman’s dressing table is a very personal space. A woman sits and contemplates her past and her future as she brushes her hair and gazes in the mirror. Everything on a dressing table has personal or sentimental value. The photo was something she treasured. Hence the image in the photo is important. The child in that photo means a lot to her. What’s more, inside her jewellery casket was a painted miniature of a young girl about three or four years of age, a lovely girl with blonde hair. It is not the sort of piece a woman has in her bijou collection unless it means something to her. I have oodles of jewels but I don’t have a painted miniature and I wouldn’t bother purchasing a miniature of someone I didn’t know. That miniature holds personal value. I think it might be the same child. The child in the photo was blonde. The doll is blonde…”