by Anna Lord
“You want to save bullets!” argued von Gunn vehemently. “You will simply wait until it is too late and the hall is flooded with brigands! And what has Charlemagne got to do with Sarazan?”
“I too have military experience,” chipped in the Prince in an attempt to take the heat out of the argument. “And though my family tree is not as illustrious as Reichenbach’s I know how to count to three.”
“This is serious,” interceded Moriarty, sensing further disagreement. “I can give the signal as I am unlikely to go off half-cocked.”
“What does that mean?” challenged the Prince.
“You are a gambler,” reminded the Colonel, “you will be thinking of the odds instead of thinking logically.”
“So naturally you want to put yourself forward!” flushed the Prince.
Moriarty took a deep breath. “If that does not suit you, Orczy, and to settle this argument before it gets out of hand, I put forward Dr Watson. He has military experience and a cool medical head. Who’s in favour?”
A chorus of grumbling settled it.
Dr Watson was so taken aback he didn’t know what to say. It was the last thing he expected from the brother of his best friend’s arch enemy. Perhaps he had misjudged the man after all. Once the matter of who was to give the signal to shoot was settled to everyone’s satisfaction, or more properly to everyone’s dissatisfaction, they got on with preparing their defensive barriers. The dining table, desk and pews were up-turned to provide cover and everyone took up their positions. The candles were then blown out leaving the great hall in darkness except for the eerie reddish glow from the embers in the cavernous fireplace and a faint moonbeam from the high lancet window. The only sound that could be heard was the wind howling around the ramparts.
Just before midnight some blood-curdling howls broke the silence. This was immediately followed by a series of violent rumbling noises which shook the foundations of Chanteloup. It was as if the wolves were giving forewarning of something stirring within the bowels of the earth. It would not be the first time animals had sensed an earthquake or some such natural disaster long before it occurred. No-one was yet asleep, nerves were too highly strung for slumber. Everyone’s heart stopped beating for several seconds while the rumbling noises were processed by over-taxed brains. Reichenbach was the first to speak.
“It’s another rockslide.”
“I think it was an earthquake this time,” said von Gunn. “Last time the wolves didn’t howl.”
“Keep your voices down,” reminded Moriarty. “We’re supposed to be asleep in our beds.”
“It sounded to me like a section of wall has come down,” hissed von Gunn, heeding the warning and lowering his tone.
“Sarazan is on his way,” whispered the Prince ominously.
No one said anything after that. In the hellish reddish darkness bodies twitched and tensed in anticipation of imminent attack. Just when muscles were starting to relax, there came the sound of a footfall on the stone stairs. Everyone heard it.
Several guns were cocked so that they were ready to fire when the time came, and so that the faint triggering sound would not alert Sarazan and his men to the trap they were walking into.
The Countess’s heart was beating fast as she and Xenia, pistols in hand, hunkered down behind the settee. A Deringer pocket pistol is an excellent weapon for lady to keep in her beaded reticule or the pocket of her cloak but it is no match for a brigand armed with a repeating rifle. A pocket pistol can fire only one shot. The two women were painfully aware of their lack of fire power. Colonel Moriarty must have realized it too, for he suddenly deserted his post behind the pews and darted across the great hall to join the ladies. He cupped the back of the Countess’s head and pressed a kiss in the darkness.
“Did the earth just move for you?”
“Yes,” she whispered breathlessly, “but it was somewhat delayed.”
The footfalls reached the top of the stairs, paused momentarily, then picked up again. Someone had come up the staircase from the kitchen and was now standing in the great hall.
How many men were on the stairs was impossible to tell. The archway that gave entrance was angled away from the fire which gave off the only light and that only faintly now the embers were growing cold. Dr Watson felt the pressure mounting, his heart was pounding and the blood had rushed to his head. Instead of helping him to think clearly it actually had the opposite effect. The rush of blood flooded his brain and overwhelmed him. If he gave the signal too soon it would be as the Colonel feared and the brigands would flee back down the stairs. If he waited too long the eight of them might be hopelessly outgunned. Adding to his dilemma was the fact he had spotted the Colonel fly across the hall toward the Countess. All his instincts screamed a warning that she was in mortal danger. Nothing was as it seemed. Nothing was certain. His eyes sieved the darkness. Something was moving. A shadow was advancing, but was it Sarazan?
Suddenly an outrageous idea struck the doctor. What if it was their missing hostess?
He could not dismiss the idea from his head. He could not give the signal to shoot until he was sure it was an outlaw. He would not have the death of the Singing Wolf on his conscience. He strained to see but the more he strained the less he saw. Blackness had a life of its own. It seemed to move when it was standing still and stand still when it was moving. It was all around and yet it was nowhere. It was solid and yet it was a void. It was everything and nothing at the same time. It was devilish hard to make out. The shadow crept stealthily forward. It did not appear to be carrying a weapon. And he was certain there was just the one shadow. Something wasn’t right.
“Hold fire!” he cried.
The shadow began to sprint back toward the stairs. Fedir gave chase, pounced and tackled it to the ground. There was a brief struggle.
In the meantime, several candles were lit. Darkness was banished and reason returned. Fedir dragged the man forward into the light.
“It’s Velazquez!” declared Prince Orczy, sounding as stunned as the others felt.
“What the hell is he playing at?” fumed von Gunn as he and the others crept out from behind their hiding places.
Moriarty, ever vigilant and innately suspicious, sent Xenia to watch one set of stairs and Fedir to watch the other lest the toreador be part of a clever trap. Only then did he join the party.
Velazquez was shaking like a leaf, terrified out of his wits. His dark eyes were darting from one person to another, looking at them as if they were demons. Dr Watson, feeling vindicated in his decision to hold fire, brought the man a chair before he fainted clear away. The servant took the weight off his legs and hung his head to avoid further eye contact.
“What the hell are you doing sneaking around at midnight?” demanded Reichenbach.
Velazquez began to stutter. “I…I came to…to…”
The Countess had seen him lick his lips and glance desperately at the bottles on the sideboard. “He came to get a drink,” she said.
“The cognac!” blurted von Gunn, checking the two bottles on the sideboard. One almost empty and one still unopened.
“I think you came up here last night too,” guessed the Countess, directing her statement at Velazquez. “Is that right?”
The handsome toreador nodded, hardly able to bring himself to believe the lengths rich people would go to preserve a few mouthfuls of cognac.
“Bastard!” shouted von Gunn. “I thought the bottle of cognac looked emptier this morning.” He raised his fist to strike the toreador but Moriarty caught it.
“Calm down!” he cautioned. “Don’t you see what this means?”
“The man is a thief!” gurgled von Gunn angrily, breaking free from the Colonel’s vice-like grip. “That’s what it means!”
“A thief and a coward!” denounced Reichenbach, siding with the German.
“Why are you standing up for him, Moriarty?” challenged the Prince, making it three against one.
The Countess came to the Colonel’s a
id. “Because it means Velazquez was roaming the castle last night when our hostess went missing.”
“So?” said the von Gunn, still thinking about cognac.
“He probably killed her!” condemned the Prince, grabbing the wrong end of the stick. “A thief, a coward and a murderer!”
“Tie him to the chair,” instructed Reichenbach. “I will soon beat the truth out of him.”
“Why make a mess of the hall?” said the Prince. “That’s what torture chambers were designed for.”
Von Gunn stepped forward. “Help me drag him down there, Orczy, and then Reichenbach can get to work. He’ll soon force the truth out of him.”
Velazquez fainted from sheer terror, a wet patch appeared between his legs as he thudded to the floor.
Dr Watson had decided to take no part of such intimidation and had gone to re-start the fire, but sickened by what he heard, he could remain silent no longer. “I will not be party to this. You cannot torture this man. You have no proof he is guilty of killing anyone.”
Reichenbach gave a dismissive laugh. “Settle down, Doctor. I have no intention of torturing the poor fellow. I was just trying to scare him into confessing, as were my two compatriots. For, as the Countess just pointed out, he was roaming the castle last night, thus it stands to reason he is the main suspect. If the Singing Wolf caught him in the act of stealing the cognac or perhaps the silver candlesticks he may have lashed out and killed her unintentionally. Let us find out.”
Von Gunn was fervently nodding. “We cannot let this moment pass. What is the alternative, comrades? That we clear out of here in a day or two, provided we survive, and leave the remains of our hostess to rot? What if she isn’t dead?”
Moriarty heaved a sigh. “I agree with that, we not only have a death, we have a missing body. That is worse than a death. Let’s revive him and see what he as to say?”
“Now you’re talking sense,” praised the Prince. “The unknown is worse than the known. We owe it to our hostess to find out what happened.”
“Very well,” conceded Dr Watson, “I agree to Baron Reichenbach questioning Velazquez but I will not stand idly by if things turn ugly. The Countess should retire to her chamber now.”
“I will not be retiring anywhere,” she stated firmly. “You missed my point completely, gentlemen. I meant that Velazquez may have seen or heard something while he was stealing a drink. I don’t for a minute believe he killed our hostess. He does not know the castle well enough to hide the body leaving no trace. And I don’t believe the old couple did it either. They have something to hide, yes, but I do not think they are murderers. If you will grant me five or ten minutes with Velazquez before you interrogate him I would be grateful.”
“Alone?” quizzed Von Gunn dubiously.
The Prince laughed crudely. “Would you like to question him in your bedchamber?”
“Shut-up!” snapped Moriarty.
The Prince would not be deterred. “You can question me second!”
“And me third!” laughed Reichenbach.
“We will be over here by the fire,” said Dr Watson, unamused.
The handsome toreador began to revive.
The Countess was secretly enjoying proceedings. Nothing got her juices flowing quicker than a mystery. She had a first rate mystery on her hands and the company of five interesting men, four of them intriguing, one of them a potential lover. Oh, yes, being a widow was simply wonderful! Had she been unmarried such a trip would have been out of the question, scandalous, utterly impossible, and had she been still married it would simply not have happened. Widowhood was wonderful! Rich widowhood was even better! She practically whirled her way to the sideboard.
“Colonel Moriarty,” she entreated, “would you be so good as to pour everyone a shot of cognac, including Velazquez. It may help to settle fraught nerves.”
“And will you also take a measure, Countess?”
Yes,” she said. “Yes, I believe I will though my nerves are just fine.”
“I can see that for myself,” he returned blandly. “An heiress three times over and nerves of steel – be still my beating heart.”
She would have laughed but Dr Watson was watching closely, a scowl souring his vinegar face adding no end of grief to his vat of worries. He only enjoyed mysteries once they were solved. She was definitely her father’s daughter – it was the pursuit, the unravelling and the challenge that made life worth living. Nothing else mattered.
Velazquez crawled back into his seat to await his fate. She tossed him a cushion to cover his lap. It was important for a man, even a servant, to maintain his dignity. She then passed him a glass of cognac. He glanced fearfully at the men by the fire.
“Fear not,” she reassured, emptying her own glass in front of him to show it was not their intention to poison him. “The men were only jesting with you. Drink up and have another one.” She waited till he gulped down the first then refilled his glass and watched as he downed the second. His hand was shaking more than usual. “Now,” she began, adopting a gentle maternal tone, “perhaps you could think back to last night when you stole up here to the great hall to have a drink after everyone had gone to bed. Can you remember if you saw or heard anything out of the ordinary that might shed some light on the disappearance of your mistress?”
He didn’t say anything for a moment and she took that as a positive sign. He was thinking about something, possibly weighing up whether it was worth telling, or even if he should mention it at all. If he had not seen or heard anything he would have been happy to say so at once. It would have been a relief to declare his ignorance in the matter. But he hesitated. She refilled his glass and passed it to him and waited patiently. She wondered if his eyes might drift to one of the men by the fire thus implicating that man in something underhand but his eyes drifted to the other side of the great hall where Xenia had been posted.
“Did you hear a noise?” she encouraged, lowering her tone.
The colour returned to his swarthy face and he nodded. “Yes, I heard voices.”
“Voices?”
“Coming from over there.” He indicated the archway leading to the spiral stairs. Fedir had been posted to the opposite archway that led down to the kitchens because, naturally, that is where Moriarty expected the attack to come from.
“The voice of your mistress?”
“Yes, I recognized hers and there was one other.”
“A man’s voice.”
“I did not recognize it.”
“Were they speaking normally to each other?”
“No, they were angry but they were not shouting. It was more like the quiet anger of deep hatred. Not the fury of the volcano but the black pit of despair.”
“Did you hear anything that was said?”
His handsome brow puckered. “I thought I heard the deeper voice say: lack or black.”
“The man’s voice?”
“Yes, and then I heard…”
“What?” she prompted when he pressed his sensual Spanish lips together.
“I cannot say in front of a lady.”
In her head she began to eliminate the sorts of things he would be able to say in front of a lady – singing, dancing, laughing – Oh! Of course! “You heard the sounds of love-making?”
He looked relieved and nodded.
“You heard heavy breathing?”
“Yes.”
“Panting?”
“Yes.”
“You know what female pleasure sounds like?”
This handsome toreador had the grace to blush. “Yes, there was much sound from the throat of a woman pleasured.”
The Countess glanced at the five men by the fireplace. Which one? Which one? According to her late step-aunt appearances could be deceiving. Mild mannered, bookish, soft-spoken men could be excellent lovers and swaggering lotharios were often the most selfish and least satisfying.
“You didn’t hear any names?”
He shook his head.
“What ha
ppened then? Did the love-making go on or did it stop?”
“It goes more, there is much roughness, the breathing, the panting, the gagging of the woman who begs for more…and then…it stops.”
“Did the man come down the stairs?”
He scratched his head. “No, there is a clanking noise.”
“Like the clanking of chains?”
He shook his head. “A clanking noise – just once – like something heavy is dropped on the stones.”
“Did this noise come from upstairs or from downstairs?”
“Upstairs.”
“Are you sure of that?” She wondered if he might suddenly be confusing the direction of the sound, and in his imagination connecting the two sounds that were not in fact connected. There was a well downstairs with a handle for lowering and raising the bucket. The cranking sound might sound like a clanking sound. The bucket might bang against the side of the well. The stairwell might distort the echo. The great hall came midway in the spiral staircase between the chamber with the well and the bedchamber of the Singing Wolf.
“I get a fright and go closer to listen. I lift tapestry and hear more noises but not like before. There is scraping sound, like something dragging on the stones. I go quickly down the stairs to my room and go to sleep.”
The only problem with his statement was that she knew the bed had not been subject to rough love-making. However, she could not dismiss it out of hand. There had been numerous times Jack had taken her on the daybed in her boudoir to avoid getting a wet patch on her freshly laundered sheets. There had also been moments of savage passion when he had taken her on the rug in front of the fire or on the chaise longue and once when he had simply pushed her up against the wall. The memory of such passionate incidences supported Velazquez’ statement rather than negated it. If the love-making had happened not in the bed but nearer the door the sound might carry down the stairs and that’s why he’d heard it.
The Countess now had a dilemma on her hands. The moment she revealed what Velazquez just told her about the sounds he heard in the bedchamber then the secret lover who had been with the Singing Wolf yet claimed not to have seen her from the time the four men left the great hall would be exposed as a liar. She leaned closer and lowered her voice.