by Anna Lord
“Where might that door lead?”
“I believe it leads to the room Orczy described as a child’s bedroom.”
“Oh, that’s right – the dead child.”
“Any luck?” said the Countess, interrupting the men.
“Yes,” said Dr Watson. “This is the perfume.” He held out an artfully sculptured greenish-blue glass bottle.
“It’s Lalique,” she said.
“Is that the name of the fragrance?” checked the Irishman.
“No, it’s the name of the glass maker – Rene Lalique. He also specializes in Art Nouveau jewellery. The Princess Roskovsky told me the Singing Wolf never failed to adorn herself with a piece of Art Nouveau. You can see some pieces in her casket on the dressing table. They’re dramatic and striking and angular – a bit like her. The vase on the sideboard in the great hall is Lalique and so is the altar-piece in the chapel. I don’t recognize this fragrance. It’s probably an individual parfum she had blended for herself at a parfumerie in Biarritz.”
Moriarty yawned and strode to the door. “I’m going to have a kip. Wake me in time for lunch.”
Dr Watson checked the jewellery casket. “Yes, I see what you mean – the pieces are very bold and modern. I can’t say I like them. Mary preferred pearls. I wonder who will inherit this lot. I wonder if our hostess thought about a Will and Testament.”
The Countess waited for the footsteps on the stairs to fade before recounting to the doctor all that Velazquez had told her the previous evening about over-hearing some loud love-making and suspecting one of the men.
“That means one of the men was lying about not seeing the Singing Wolf since saying goodnight to her, hang on, you said the bed hadn’t been slept in” reminded Dr Watson.
“Yes, I thought about that, but not everyone has intercourse in bed. In fact, if the intercourse had not been conducted in bed they would have been closer to the door and more likely to be overheard.”
“Er, yes,” muttered Dr Watson, turning pink. “Well, no wonder poor Velazquez bolted. He looked scared out of his wits last night and when he raced past me today I could have sworn he thought the devil was after him. Poor chap. Which man do you think was, er, with our hostess in her room?”
“I have wracked my brains. It could have been any one of them.”
“Including the Colonel?” he tested.
“Especially the Colonel!”
“You’re not falling for him, then?”
“Trust me - I know what I’m doing.”
“Don’t play games! You might find you have bitten off more than you can chew when it comes to clan Moriarty. I think he is dangerous but you know that already. I don’t trust him one bit but you know that too. Remember: blood is thicker than water.”
She took to wandering the perimeter of the odd-shaped room while he delivered the well-meaning lecture. By the time he’d finished dishing out avuncular advice she had paused in front of an oil painting of a girl with a kitten. It was either a genuine Jean-Baptiste Perronneau or a very good imitation. The kitten looked feral but the girl looked sweet with soft fair hair and a blue silk dress adorned with tiny rosettes. “Oh, I just remembered what I came up here to tell you. Someone entered my bedroom while we were checking the ramparts. They took the doll.”
“Why is the doll so important?”
“I have no idea but it clearly matters to someone. It was hidden under the pillow in this bed.” She checked to make sure it had not been put back under the pillow. “And now it has disappeared just like our hostess. I find that curious.”
Dr Watson stifled a yawn. “We should have a nap before lunch too.”
“You go ahead. I want to search the dressing rooms a second time.”
He was reluctant to leave her on her own. “I’ll just stretch out on this bed then. Wake me when you’re done.”
The collection of clothes belonging to the Singing Wolf was almost as enormous as the collection belonging to the Countess herself, and the quality was equally excellent, but it was the dressing room with the opera costumes that interested the Countess most of all. The Singing Wolf must have starred in almost every opera ever written: Aida, Rigoletto, Macbeth, Otello - and had the costumes to prove it. There was just one costume that seemed out of place. It consisted of a pair of black leather trousers with a matching black leather gilet that laced up at the front, and came with a pair of black riding boots, black gloves, black neckerchief, and even a gun belt. The Countess couldn’t think of any – Sacre Bleu!
The Singing Wolf’s lover was Sarazan!
She must have let him into the castle after everyone else had gone to bed. He must have killed her after the act, and he must have taken the body away with him – that’s why it couldn’t be found. Sarazan was the mysterious lover Velazquez had heard that night. The terrified toreador was not in mortal danger from any of the men inside the castle. That was one mystery solved and yet the Countess could not rejoice. There was inexpressible relief that it could not have been Moriarty and yet great pity that Velazquez had died in vain.
Philosophical about the absurdity of life and possessing a stoic soul, the Countess forced herself to remain focussed. She checked the garderobe and gave special attention to the lancet window that faced outwards, though there was no question anyone had climbed in now that it was clear the Singing Wolf had opened the door to her own killer. The floor was badly scratched where Desi had probably dragged the heavy buckets across the stones to flush the chute. Moss clung thickly to the iron grate of the latrine, more-so than the one in the east wing, nearest her bedroom. This seemed odd since it faced south and was flushed more often that any of the others, but perhaps that’s why the moss flourished – it was wet for longer periods.
In the bathroom Desi had wiped down the copper bath and the triple aspect cheval glass. The surfaces gleamed in the dim half-light. She was about to turn her back on the room when the mirror caught her eye. The middle section was fixed to the stone wall and yet it protruded at least twelve inches. The two wings were on hinges and were much thinner, merely the thickness of the glass and the carved backboard. The mirror had been designed so that someone could relax in the bath and gaze at themselves at the same time. Ah, vanity!
Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the vainest of them all!
The Countess decided to give Dr Watson a bit more time to nap. She curled up in the chair by the door, wrapped a quilted blanket around herself to keep warm since there was no fire, and closed her eyes…
Barely had she the time to drift off when some sublime singing reached her ears. There was no mistaking it. It was the elusive singing phantom. Every muscle in her body tensed and her first instinct was to rouse Dr Watson from his slumber but she knew if she moved from her chosen spot she would alert the phantom to her presence. It was better to stay put and wait until the door was opened and the phantom revealed itself. Her heart was beating fast, she was holding onto her last indrawn breath, the door was creaking on its hinges when Dr Watson stirred, snorted and rolled over.
In an instant the door slammed shut and the phantom fled. The Countess gave chase. By the time she’d thrown open the door and hitched up her petticoats, the elusive creature had the advantage of several yards. She caught no glimpse of it as she hurtled down the dark and narrow spiral stairs in furious pursuit.
She had reached the one and only landing midway in the corkscrew when something grabbed hold of her elbow and almost wrenched her arm out of its socket, violently halting her momentum.
“What the hell’s going on?”
“Let go!” she demanded fervently but already it was too late. The phantom had eluded capture a second time. Incensed, she confronted her assailant. “Why did you grab me like that?”
Moriarty, visibly chagrined, released her arm and stepped back into the great hall. “I thought you were about to fall headlong down the stairs.”
“I was chasing the singing phantom - did you see it?”
“No, I was looking at th
at Lalique vase you spoke of, the one on the sideboard, when I heard what I thought was a swishing-pattering sound. It sounded like a dog. As it got louder, I kid you not - I thought it might be a pack of wolves coming down the stairs and then I heard a cat miaow.”
“You didn’t hear any singing?”
“No.”
“Are you sure you didn’t see anyone rush down the stairs ahead of me?”
“Well, as I said I was looking at the vase. In the time it took me to replace it and lift back the tapestry someone could have raced past.”
Anger subsided and her breathing returned to normal. She had to admit that what he said was reasonable. She had been hurtling like a mad woman down the stairs and one mis-step could have sent her plunging to her death. She recalled that story someone told on their first night at the castle about the boy who altered the height of the riser and killed his drunken father. Moriarty might have recalled it too when he spotted her flying along.
She was tossing up whether to tell him about the outlaw costume in the closet upstairs when Inez entered with a tureen of leak and potato soup. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying. The death of Velazquez had hit her hard. The Countess wondered if they had been lovers.
Xenia arrived bearing a platter of cold meats and cheeses, and Desi appeared with a basket of freshly baked bread and current buns and was being extra careful not to drop it. Moriarty went to wake his friends and the Countess went to fetch Dr Watson.
15
Inquisition
“Where’s von Gunn?” said the Baron, glancing at the comptoise clock leaning against the wall as they took their seats at the large oak table. “He went down to the cellar ages ago. He should have returned with those two bottles of cognac by now.”
“He’s probably been sampling them to make sure they haven’t spoiled,” gibed Prince Orczy, uncorking a bottle of local Gaillac wine. “Let him sleep. I’ll go and wake him after I’ve eaten. I didn’t take much breakfast and I’m famished. I’ll hunt out some grand cru while I’m down there.”
“I’ll go with you,” offered the Countess. “I wouldn’t mind some champagne tonight.”
“Bring up a sweet sherry while you’re at it,” said Dr Watson. “You can have the champagne to yourself.” He was in a much better mood since his nap, though the senseless death of the toreador weighed heavily on him. He raised his glass. “Let us drink to the memory of Velazquez.”
“To Velazquez,” they solemnly chorused.
They discussed the plan for tonight. It was exactly the same as the previous evening, though with Sarazan’s forces seriously depleted it was unlikely he would be contemplating an all-out assault, especially as he was under no illusion that he was up against men who knew one end of a gun from another. If the brigand had any sense he would go back to robbing pilgrims and unarmed train travellers. So, it was not Sarazan that concerned them. It was the fact there was a lunatic at large who was likely to slit their throats one by one while they slept. When the Countess told them about hearing the singing phantom just prior to lunch it confirmed their resolve to stick together. And that’s when they remembered von Gunn a second time.
“This talk of lunatics,” said the Prince, adopting an ominous undertone, “makes me think von Gunn has been gone a long time.”
Reichenbach pushed abruptly to his feet and checked the chamber of his gun for bullets. “I’m going down to the cellar.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Moriarty, his hand on his revolver.
In the end it was only Dr Watson who chose to remain in the great hall. He sat with his back against the wall and kept his hand on his Webley. Someone needed to stay back in case that elusive phantom turned up unannounced.
The servants were enjoying hot soup and crusty bread and fairly jumped out of their skins when three men and one woman streamed through the main kitchen brandishing loaded weapons. Fortunately, the quartet paused only long enough to light some lanterns before continuing straight down to the cellar.
Von Gunn was nowhere to be seen. Two bottles of cognac standing by the cellar stairs indicated he had come this way. They wasted no time and ran down some more stairs to the dungeon and torture chamber. It was a relief not to find him strapped to the rack or strung up on a strappado. Everyone had been imagining the worst.
“Here he is!” shouted the Prince not long after they spread out to widen the search.
Von Gunn was found at the bottom of an oubliette – literally a small pit in the floor where a prisoner could be dispatched and forgotten, hence the name. It was too deep to climb out of and not wide enough to stretch out. A few days of being doubled-up and bent in such a small hole would have been an agony on the bones. Some times more than one prisoner went in and the poor fellows sat in their own filth until they starved to death.
A ladder was found and Prince Orczy, being tall and slim, volunteered to go down to help the German climb the rungs. He appeared groggy and dazed and had a lump on his head the size of a bird’s egg. He couldn’t say whether he had been pushed or whether he had merely stumbled in the dark and thus ended up in the oubliette by accident.
“What made you come down to the dungeon” asked the Baron.
“I thought I heard singing.”
A quick search of the tiny cells and torture chamber revealed no sign of life apart from rats and cockroaches. They were glad to return to the cellar, grab what they wanted by way of liquid refreshment, and bolt the door behind them.
The Countess hung back and waited for Moriarty to catch up to her.
“Here,” she said, handing him the bottle of champagne, “take this upstairs. I want to search the child’s room. I need you to instruct the servants to accompany you to the great hall. You can say you want to interrogate them about what just happened to Herr von Gunn.”
“Do you want me to stay with you? Reichenbach can deal with the servants.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want the old couple to think anyone is searching their private quarters.”
He understood. “I’ll leave your maid and manservant with you.”
The Countess pretended to be interested in the preparations Xenia was undertaking toward their dinner – cooking green borscht, much tastier than the red version, made from chervil rather than beetroot – and waited until the others disappeared.
“Keep an eye out,” she instructed Fedir, who had just brought in a load of wood. “Warn me if anyone comes.”
Hurrying into the bakery room, she immediately set about checking the armoire and the storage chest but it was exactly as Moriarty had described to the doctor: sabots, scarves, hats and cloaks. Loaves of bread baked that morning were cooling on the small table in the centre of the room which was still covered with a fine dusting of flour. It was a proper bread-making table, the sort found in most peasant homes, with a lid that opened and a hatch underneath for the dough so that it could be kept warm while the yeast expanded prior to baking. Twin beds were pressed against the wall nearest the bread oven. The blankets had been pulled back, allowing the beds to air. The stale smell of sweat and the odour of old people clung to the bedding. The floor around the door to the child’s room was as Moriarty had said – covered with sawdust and flour. The sack of flour was now half-empty. She slipped the bolt and went inside. There was no window and the light was dim. It took a moment to adjust to the darkness. A child’s cot stood against the far wall and a beautifully carved storage chest stood near the door. The room was small. The only other furniture was a comfortable nursing chair and a wicker basket full of toys. The child’s cot was shaped like a sleigh, elaborately carved with images of reindeer. The bedding was made from good quality linen and smelled freshly laundered. The quilt was plump and the pillow was stuffed with goose-down. This child had been cossetted and well-loved. Inside the chest was a collection of clothes for a young girl who had been about four or five years of age. The fabric was silk and satin and velvet, edged in lace and frills and ruffles and bows. There were two pairs of satin slipp
ers and even a pair of sabots for dainty little feet. Tucked into the corners of the chest were pouches of dried lavender. The smell was sweet and lovely. This child had not only been cossetted, she had been supremely spoiled. The old couple could never have afforded this level of luxury for their child without the generosity of their mistress. Their benefactress must have doted on the child too.
The Countess replaced everything as she had found it and retreated, being careful to make the flour and sawdust by the door appear undisturbed. Her hands and nails were dirty by the time she finished covering her footprints and she understood what Moriarty had meant when he told the doctor the hands of the old couple were clean.
The death of this much-loved child had possibly driven someone over the edge into madness – perhaps a wet nurse or a nursery maid, or perhaps the real mother, yes, a lady of rank, for it seemed unlikely that the clothes in the chest belonged to the child of the poor old couple. The garments were too new, too fresh, too costly. If the child had been theirs it would have died more than sixty years ago. No, it could not possibly be their child who had owned these things. They were custodians of this treasure trove of keepsakes but they did not own them. Knowing that, it soon became clear that they knew who did. And that meant they knew who the mad woman was. It was time to see what they had to say.
Inez was sobbing. She looked wretched and scared stiff sitting in the chair at the end of the dining table facing the four men who were taking turns interrogating her. Dr Watson, wanting no part of such proceedings, had taken it upon himself to help Fedir bring up some wood and re-stack the fire baskets. If they were going to sit up all night they would need more fuel.
Milo, Desi and the old couple were seated on a pew in the chapel, awaiting their turn.
“I tell you I did not see when Herr von Gunn went to the cellar. I was in the laundry room. My back was to the door. I not know what happen to him. I tell you I did not hear any singing. Velazquez was not my lover. Never! How could I know what was in his head when he decide to run away? He liked to drink, yes, I know that. He was always shaking, always nervous, I think that was the drink making him do that. I tell you I do not know what happen to our mistress. After our mistress go missing, Velazquez is afraid even more, always jumping at every leetle sound, always looking over his shoulder. I am afraid too. I think he see something that night but he not tell me. We not have time to talk about such things. I tell you he was not my lover!” she repeated fervently, sobbing so much by the time she finished they could get nothing more out of her.