The Curse of the Singing Wolf

by Anna Lord

  Inez, still weeping, sashayed back to the pew with a natural dancer’s grace and Desi was summoned. The lumpy Negress shuffled to the chair and slumped inelegantly onto the seat. Her hands were folded in her lap, perhaps to stop them shaking, though she did not appear nervous or afraid merely bewildered.

  “Did you see when Herr von Gunn went into the cellar?” began Reichenbach a little less harshly since he did not want another flood of tears.

  She shook her frizzy head and looked directly at the Prussian. “I am in scullery. I have my back to door. People come and go. I not look. I am busy, always busy. Always there is work to do. The other servants they do not come, there is more work for me.”

  “Did you hear any singing?”

  “I am busy, too busy to hear singing. I never hear singing except when the mistress sings. She has good voice. I like her voice. I stop and listen when she sing. I think she will not sing more. I think that is the end of her singing.”

  “What makes you so sure she will not sing anymore?”

  She shrugged her big broad shoulders. “I think she is finished singing.”

  “Finished singing?”

  She shrugged again. “She is gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  The Negress looked up to the vaulted roof or perhaps to heaven. “Gone.”

  Von Gunn jumped in. “You think she is dead?”

  The Negress nodded without elaborating or looking at her interrogator.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “The mistress make no more singing. I like her singing. But now she sing no more.”

  Reichenbach decided to move on, the girl’s answers were becoming repetitive.

  “Did you notice when Velazquez got up in the night? I am referring to the first night we stayed here in Chanteloup.”

  She scratched her thick black neck and nodded. “I hear him. He trips on stones. He falls down. He gets up. He goes into big kitchen. Bang! He knocks chair. He picks chair up. He is going to get some drink. He likes to drink at night. This everyone knows. He goes up the stairs. He trips again. He falls down. He gets up. All is quiet.”

  “Did you hear when he came back?”

  “Yes, he go to wrong room. He go to room of Inez. She tells him go away. He comes to me. I tell him same. Go away. I need sleep. I am tired. He tells me he is cold. He want to get in bed with me. He say to me he hear singing. He is scared. I tell him go or I will scream. He go and all is quiet.”

  Reichenbach could hardly believe the handsome toreador would prefer the ugly negress to the sultry lithe flamenco dancer but it wouldn’t be the first time drink had rendered a man blind to reality. “Did he often want to get into bed with you?”

  The Negress glanced toward the pew where Inez was sitting with her head in her hands. “Sometime - when he drink too much.”

  Von Gunn guffawed raucously. He was thinking the same as Reichenbach, but he could see the funny side of it. Poor deluded Velazquez!

  A dark shadow fell over the heavy brow of the Negress and she scowled, squared her substantial shoulders and tilted her double chin to a noble angle. The Baron decided to throw up the questioning to the others. The Countess took him up on the invitation.

  “Did you hear anyone else that night, Desi?”

  “Who you mean?”

  “The singing ghost perhaps?”

  “No ghost. Velazquez is drunk. He always see ghosts.”

  “What sort of ghosts?”

  “Ghost of his friend.”

  “Friend?”

  “Friend he kill in Pamplona.”

  “Who told you this?”

  Desi looked across at Inez who had suddenly stopped weeping and was listening intently. “I hear when Velazquez tell to Inez one night when he go to her bed.”

  “Liar! Liar!” shouted the sultry dancer. “Velazquez never came to my bed! I wouldn’t let him!” She began to sob again, even more hysterically.

  “Be quiet, woman!” ordered von Gunn. “Or I will lock you in the dungeon!”

  Inez took him at his word, cried out in fear, and began to suck back huge gulps of air that ended in hiccups. Milo patted her on the back with his bandaged hand to calm her down. The old couple clung to each other in trepidation. They were probably thinking this was the beginning of a new Inquisition. The Countess continued, though she doubted the line of questioning would produce anything useful, but at this stage who knew where anything might lead.

  “What did you overhear, Desi? Is that short for Desiderata?”

  Desi shook her head. “Desdemona.”

  The Countess offered a friendly smile that matched her tone. “Desdemona - like the name of the heroine in Otello. Your mistress sang the part of Desdemona. I saw a costume in the closet where she keeps her opera clothes. It was made of red and gold silk. Did you see it?”

  The Negress began to nod then shook her head firmly, as if she had misunderstood the question. The Countess smiled indulgently and returned to her original question.

  “What did you overhear between Velazquez and Inez?”

  “I hear him tell Inez he kill his friend. He is running with bulls and he push his friend under the bull. His friend is killed.”

  “Liar!” shouted Inez, hiccupping violently.

  The Negress appeared to be enjoying herself or perhaps she was enjoying the distress of Inez. Until this moment no one could have suspected that the relationship between these two female servants was anything but amicable.

  “Be quiet!” warned von Gunn, thumping his fist on the table.

  “Did Velazquez say why he did that?” continued the Countess calmly.

  Desi scowled and nodded. “He say friend steal his lover.”

  The machismo of toreadors was confirmed yet again in the imagination of the listeners but they did not really need to dwell on the immorality of hot-blooded types. Nevertheless, the story went some way to explaining why he chose to bolt. Fear, guilt and excessive drink made for a dangerous mix.

  “Let me go back to last night,” said the Countess. “Velazquez brought the glasses down to the scullery for you to wash, is that right?”

  The Negress nodded.

  “What did you do after you finished washing the glasses?”

  “I go to bed.”

  “Did you go straight to bed?”

  She nodded, but this time there was some stiffness to her bobbing head.

  “It had been a long tiring day and we had not had much lunch. I notice you are large and strong. I think no one would mind if you had decided to have something extra to eat before bed.”

  The Negress squeezed her fingers together and nodded sheepishly. “I am hungry. I have extra bread and cup of cold tea from pot on table.”

  “Was anyone else still up?”

  She shook her head.

  “You did not hear anyone using the back stairs?”

  “No, who you mean?”

  “No one,” said the Countess vaguely. “I was just wondering.” She left it at that.

  Reichenbach called for any further questions, but they all thought they had got everything they were ever going to get out of the Negress. The way she kept asking ‘who’ when she was asked a question indicated she had been used to being told what to think. She clearly harboured a grudge against Inez and it was not difficult to see why. The Spanish dancer was everything she was not – slim, graceful, attractive and desirable.

  Milo was summoned. Bandages were still wrapped around his hands. Dr Watson had checked them during the day and changed them. The blisters had burst and there was a lot of pus but they had not become infected. The boy was strong and healthy. The Countess decided to put the boy at his ease before the men got stuck into him.

  “How are your hands?”

  “They get better, thank you, signora. The English doctor, he look after my hands.”

  “How old are you, Milo?”

  “Twelve, signora.”

  “Where do you come from?”

  “Sicily, signora.�
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  “How did you come to work at the Hotel Louve?”

  “I am begging in the street when lovely lady come in her carriage and take me to her hotel and give me bath and give me bed and give me food and give me job. I am very happy there, signora.”

  “You are not so happy to come here, is that right, Milo?”

  “Yes, signora.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The bandits they kill us. There is many bandits in Sicily. They kill my sister. And now the mistress she is killed too.”

  “How do you know she has been killed?”

  “She goes in the night from her bed – like my sister.”

  “Do you think the bandits took your mistress?”

  He pressed his lips together and nodded.

  Reichenbach cleared his throat with a dry cough before interrupting.

  “Did you see Herr von Gunn go down to the cellar before lunch?”

  “Si, signor.”

  “Did you hear any singing?”

  “No, signor.”

  “Where were you when you saw Herr von Gunn go into the cellar?”

  “I am in room with well. I am getting water in bucket.”

  “Did you see anyone else?”

  “Si, signor.”

  “Who?”

  Milo indicated the old man sitting on the pew. “I see him.”

  “What was he doing when you saw him?”

  “He is going into cellar after Herr von Gunn.”

  Von Gunn looked livid. If not for the lump on his head and the restraining hand of Moriarty on his elbow, the German would have leapt to his feet, rushed across the room and hauled the old man up by the scruff of his neck.

  “What happened next?”

  “I take bucket of water to kitchen.”

  “Did you see Almaric, for that is his name, after you went into the kitchen?”

  “Yes, he comes with bottle of wine. His wife she pours red wine in pot with rabbit and puts on fire.”

  “Where did you go then?”

  “I take bucket back to well.”

  “You didn’t hear any singing then or hear anything strange?”

  “No, signor.”

  “Did you notice if the door to the cellar was bolted?”

  “No, signor, I did not look.”

  Reichenbach invited others to put forward any questions. Von Gunn was keen to interrogate the boy but Moriarty shot him a warning look. Prince Orczy had lit up yet another cigarette and put his feet up on the dining table. He appeared amused and relaxed. Dr Watson stepped up. He did not want to give von Gunn the opportunity to badger the poor lad. He had been listening and knew enough to carry on.

  “You share a room with Velazquez?”

  “Si, signor doctor.”

  “Did you hear Velazquez get out of bed last night?”

  “Si, signor doctor.”

  “Where did you think he was going?”

  “To get some drink.”

  “Did he often get up in the night to get some drink?”

  “Si, signor, and sometimes he…” The boy glanced at Inez and stopped dead.

  Dr Watson moved along. “Did you hear anyone else up and about during the night?”

  The boy looked back at the pew then dropped his gaze. But who was he looking at? The four figures were all huddled closely together. It was impossible to tell. He wondered if the Countess had noticed the boy’s line of gaze.

  “That is all,” said Dr Watson. “If you remember anything else please come and tell me at once.”

  Milo went back to the pew and the old couple stood up to come forward without waiting to be summoned. As they advanced, Reichenbach instructed the other three servants to return to the kitchen. He had decided the old couple might be more forthcoming if they did not have an audience, especially as Milo had implicated the old man in the attack on von Gunn. A chair was brought forward by Moriarty for the woman. Reichenbach addressed the old couple in English for he had noticed that they had understood the questions put to them the previous evening, though comprehending and replying were two separate skills. He hoped their taciturnity was not linked to some peasant dialect.

  “You understand that your mistress is missing and we are concerned for her safety?”

  The old man, who was clearly going to be the spokesperson for the half-deaf-half-blind pair, replied. “Oui.”

  “Do you have any idea what may have happened to your mistress?”

  “Non.”

  “Was she in the habit of disappearing for a few days when she came to stay here?”

  “Non.”

  “What do you think happened to her? Do not be frightened to speak. We are anxious to hear what you have to say.”

  The old man clasped the hand of his wife tighter than ever and reverted to English, and he was clearly not a French peasant who had spent his life chopping vegetables at Chanteloup. He was well-educated and his grammar was better than that of the Inez, Desi and Milo.

  “She is being reborn.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Our mistress is being reborn as more perfect.”

  “Are you saying you believe she is being reincarnated?”

  “Oui.”

  Von Gunn expostulated, “Now I’ve heard it all! This is a mad house, gentlemen!”

  Prince Orczy sneered. “Let me guess! She is coming back as an eagle!”

  “Or perhaps a wolf!” scoffed Moriarty, who was losing patience and had started to pace the length of the bookshelf. Lack of sleep was getting to him.

  “The Singing Wolf was that already!” reminded the Prince, laughing snidely.

  The old man was not deterred. “She will become a Perfecti.”

  Lessons in religious studies from various classics tutors came flooding back to the Countess. “You are referring to the ancient Cathar belief about human spirit being genderless like the spirits of the angels. Humans are cursed to be reincarnated until they achieve salvation through the ritual of consolamentum and become Pure Ones – is that it?”

  The old man and even the half-deaf woman looked stunned that she knew anything about their religion.

  “Oui, oui, our mistress will become like Madame Carcas,” croaked the old woman.

  The Countess decided to enlighten the men so that they too would understand why this strange old couple did not seem overly concerned by the inexplicable disappearance of their mistress, which is no doubt something that had been puzzling them the same as her.

  “The Cathars were persecuted by the Catholics because they considered their religion to be less corrupt, more pure. They deemed women to be equal to men, a dangerous idea to a male centric church. Mary Magdalen was more important than St Peter. Women were able to offer the sacrament and to preach. They believed that each incarnation would bring them closer to God. A Perfecti is the highest form of enlightenment before godliness. Since the soul is immaterial the Cathars believed it was also sexless. Madame Carcas refers to the chatelaine of Carcassonne who endured a long siege and saved the city from destruction. Some Cathars believe the last incarnation will be as a male.”

  “What are you saying?” pressed Reichenbach. “Are we looking at suicide again?”

  “I’m not sure that suicide is the right word. More like martyrdom. If the Singing Wolf believed she would be reincarnated she might have offered herself up to martyrdom.”

  “Martyrdom at whose hands?” said Moriarty gruffly.

  “I have no idea, but Sarazan springs to mind.”

  Von Gunn slammed his fist on the table again. “Balderdash! This is rubbish! If you believe that you are mad too!”

  “I didn’t say I believed it,” defended the Countess, “I am only explaining it as I understand it to be.”

  Certain things began to fall into place as she spoke: the black leather outfit in the closet that clearly belonged to a man, for starters. Perhaps it was not Sarazan’s after all. Perhaps the Singing Wolf meant it to be her costume in the next and final incarnation. Ye
s, she had appeared to be almost androgynous in appearance and she had preferred jewellery that was masculine in design. Were those things deliberate choices to help her in the next life? And the physical love-making the night she died – did it take the form of ecstasy-in-death? It was a fairly common belief that the expending of sperm was a type of death, and such belief was not limited to the religious or poetic fraternity, but included scientists and doctors, though what was less well understood was that women ejaculated too. Was Sarazan a believer? Did he participate willingly? Or was he merely an acolyte? And the fact her physical body had disappeared imbued her death with mystical aura. Of course, none of those things explained why she had brought the four men to Chanteloup. Unless they were doing a magnificent job of feigning disbelief, they could not be adherents of Catharism. Perhaps it simply amused her to have them here. Or perhaps, as for most religions, she required witnesses to her miraculous death.

  Von Gunn’s anger was mounting. “Let’s get back to who coshed me on the head in the dungeon. I say the old man did it and I will get the truth out of him even if I have to -”

  “Calm down,” advised Moriarty, catching the German by the arm as he sprang forward, “you could simply have fallen into that oubliette and hit your head against the stone.”

  “The boy saw the old man follow me into the cellar!”

  “Yes,” agreed the doctor, siding with the Irishman. “And he saw him come out with a bottle of red for the rabbit stew. What were you doing in the dungeon anyway?”

  Von Gunn shook free and shifted uncomfortably. “I told you I heard singing. I went to investigate. Oh, believe what you like! I’m going to get some fresh air! My head is thumping and I’ve heard enough!”