The Curse of the Singing Wolf

by Anna Lord

  16

  Le Tresor

  The interrogation of the old couple broke up sooner than any of them would have liked. They still had no answers to any of their questions. Just more questions. But after von Gunn’s outburst and the unbelievable claims by the old man about reincarnation it was impossible to return to common-sense. Lack of sleep compounded their irritability. And tonight would be more of the same – sleeping on makeshift beds, listening to the slightest noise, suspicious and anxious.

  Baron Reichenbach and Prince Orczy volunteered to see to the horses and donkeys. Fedir had let the animals out of the stable to graze in the outer bailey. It was time to bring them in before darkness fell. Moriarty announced he intended stealing forty winks. They all agreed it was best to let von Gunn cool his heels until dinnertime. Dr Watson walked with the Countess to the east wing where a hot bath awaited her in her bedroom.

  “You didn’t believe that piffle about reincarnation?”

  “If you mean do I believe in reincarnation per se then the answer is no, but if you mean did I believe that the old couple believed it then the answer is yes.”

  She told him about the black leather outfit: trousers, gilet, hat, neckerchief, boots and gun belt. She told him about the masculine style jewellery. She told him about the androgynous appearance of their hostess – she had been tall and angular, her face sculpted and chiselled, there had been something altogether masculine about her that defied the long lustrous tawny hair and pouty red lips. She had been striking in appearance not because she had been the feminine epitome of the perfect woman but because she had been bold and formidable. She had lacked the grace of Inez but she had not lacked grace. Her grace had been the lupine grace of the wolf, the powerful grace of the eagle, the dangerous grace of the warrior.

  “You said Sarazan springs to mind in connection to her martyrdom?”

  “Yes, don’t you see, it might have been Sarazan in her room making love to her unto death, not any of our fellow inmates.”

  “How would he have gained entry?”

  “She let him in.”

  The doctor stopped walking while he processed the idea. “You mean she simply waited until everyone had gone to bed and then opened the door?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the gate and the portcullis?”

  “That too.”

  “Good grief! Sarazan could have murdered us in our beds!”

  “Except he didn’t.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “She had him under her control.”

  “But what about the attack on us as we travelled?”

  “He didn’t realise who we were until it was too late. She normally came alone. She was a recluse. We were a large party. He attacked us before he realised his mistake. She couldn’t very well wave to him and call out his name. Remember he stood up on the rock and waved at someone. I think he was waving to her. He signalled his mistake and backed off.”

  “But the attack this morning outside the gate?”

  “She is now dead. We are now fair game.”

  He began walking again. “I need time to absorb this information.”

  They walked without talking until they reached her bedroom door.

  “What about von Gunn,” he said, “in that oubliette?”

  “He fell and hit his head on the stones – just as Moriarty suggested.”

  “What about the singing?”

  “It could have been Inez or Desi down in the scullery. Sound travels up the spiral staircase and we think it is someone on the stairs. Same with von Gunn. He hears singing and follows the sound down to the dungeon but it might have been coming from somewhere else. There may be hollows between the walls. The guards might have wanted to hear what the prisoners were saying amongst themselves. Or there may be secret tunnels that carry the sound.”

  “But the sound of someone running?”

  “We were all on edge. Our imaginations were running rampant. We were tired too. None were thinking clearly. It might have been a cat or several cats. Who knows how many cats live here inside the castle. I’ve seen at least six. Or perhaps a small flock of birds which came in through the lancet window in the garderobe in the south tower and flew down the stairs and ended up in the kitchen.”

  He nodded. “Yes, yes, it makes sense. You’ve clearly thought this through. The only thing we need to worry about is Sarazan.”

  “Hopefully his group of brigands has been seriously depleted.”

  “Hopefully. Well, I’ll see you at dinner. I’m going to have a lie down and think about what we just discussed. I can’t rid myself of the suspicion the four men were invited for a reason we know nothing about. It just seems too much of a coincidence that they all have some sort of military connection. I agree the fire was deliberately lit.”

  Fedir and Xenia were waiting for the Countess in her bedchamber. The bath was ready, the water scented with herbs, the towels warming by the fire. Her maid and manservant had been busy while the others were being interrogated. Fedir spoke first while the Countess went behind the screen to remove her many layers of clothes with Xenia’s help.

  “I think the four men are up to something,” he said in his native tongue, lowering his voice just in case.

  The Countess almost groaned - just when she thought she had thought everything through here was something else. “What makes you say that?”

  “I heard the old man tell his wife he saw the German sneaking down to the dungeon when he went into the cellar to get a bottle of red wine for the pot. He said the German lied about the singing. The German was searching for something.”

  “He used the word: sneaking?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he say what he thought the German was looking for?”

  “No, but he told his wife he went down to take a look and the German called out to him: What are doing, old man. Get out of here…So he left.”

  “Is that all?”

  Fedir shook his head. “This morning when the men said they were having a sleep. I went to take them some fresh water for washing and I could hear them inside their rooms. They were moving furniture. When I knocked, the Prussian told me to leave the water jug on the floor outside the door. He didn’t want to open the door to me.”

  “I see.”

  “The Prince opened the door but just wide enough for me to pass the jug of water through the gap. He didn’t want me to go into his room.”

  “Mmm, what about the Irishman?”

  “He was with you in the tower at first and then he was in the great hall. He didn’t go to his room for a rest. He was studying the bible in the chapel when I first saw him and when I came back that way he was checking the books on the shelf in the library. As soon as he spotted me he moved quickly to the cabinet to look at the vase. He didn’t want me to think he was looking for something in the books. He told me to leave the jug of water in his room and to bolt the door on my way out.”

  Well, this was an unwelcome piece of news. It appeared the four men were looking for something other than a dead body. Cathar treasure was the obvious conclusion to jump to. But then why search the bookshelf and the bible? Perhaps they had heard about a secret map? Did the men engineer the fire so as to come to Chanteloup to search for that legendary Cathar treasure the Singing Wolf was reputed to have discovered? Did they kill her after all? Were the four of them in it together?

  If so, it would explain why the body had not been found. The men could easily pretend to have searched and found nothing. She and Dr Watson would have no way of knowing.

  Dr Watson might be right after all, or at least half right. The four men were up to something but it had nothing to do with military conspiracy. Whatever the truth, there was more to discover. The conclusion she had reached earlier did not take into account the men having an ulterior motive. It put the death of the Singing Wolf in a different light. It put the testimony of the servants back in the spotlight. She had thought at the time of the interrogations that one or more of
them had been lying.

  The Countess came out from behind her screen wrapped in a white velvet dressing gown edged in ermine. She addressed both servants.

  “I want you to find out all you can about the servants. Chat to them about their backgrounds. Where they were born? Where they came from? Do not make it seem as if you are questioning them. Talk about yourselves and then ask them a question or two so that it sounds natural. Show sympathy. The boy lost his sister to bandits. The Negress is always tired and over-worked. Inez was once a dancer. I think she was the lover of Velazquez but she doesn’t want to admit it. Why? What is she ashamed of? What can they tell you about their mistress? You can make things up about me if it helps you to gain their trust. Most of all, what were they really doing during that first night? Let me know anything you learn as soon as you learn it. I will take my bath now. I will bolt the door after you go. Xenia, you can return to help me dress for dinner in one hour. I will be safe until your return. Five knocks and I will open the door.”

  As the Countess soaked in the copper bath she cursed the mystery she found herself unable to unravel. In the adventures of Sherlock Holmes, according to the chronicles of Dr Watson, a series of problems presented themselves which Sherlock then methodically deduced and solved. Voila! If Dr Watson were ever to chronicle her sleuthing adventures he would present to the reader a set of problems and then just when she looked set to solve them turn everything on its head, forcing her to start again, and then when she felt she was making headway he would throw in some new information that had nothing to do with the original mystery, forcing her to revise all her deductions, and then he would pile on yet more unforeseen problems until it was impossible to make head or tail of anything!

  She dried herself, slipped back into her dressing gown and sat by the fire to dry a cascade of brunette hair while she pondered all the facts. Was this a simple treasure hunt? Was it a military conspiracy? Was it a case of religious mania? Was the singing phantom merely a figment of their over-worked imaginations? Were the servants lying because they feared they might be in trouble for helping themselves to extra food? The facts could be made to fit any one of those theories except for several minor points. Firstly, the doll - who had taken it from her room and where was it now? Secondly, the bed of the Singing Wolf – who had mussed it up between the first time she saw it and such time as she returned with Moriarty? And thirdly, the dead body – where was it? If Sarazan had carried it away how did he clamber over the fallen rocks in the dark with a body in his arms without setting off a further rockslide? More to the point, who lowered the portcullis and barred the gate after him?

  Xenia returned after one hour and already she had news. Fedir had just spoken to Milo. The boy was supposed to be filling baskets with kindling, ready for re-starting the fires in the morning, but he wasn’t in the wood shed, he was throwing a knife at a hitching post near the main gate. The thing Fedir found interesting was that the boy with bandaged hands could hit the post at twenty paces with astonishing accuracy. He spoke to the boy about where he had picked up such skill. The boy told him he had learned it from his father. Vendettas were rife in his homeland and everyone carried a dagger from a young age. Then the boy let slip he had stabbed the man who murdered his sister. His own mother had turned him out of the house before the entire family was murdered to avenge the man he had murdered to avenge his sister. That’s how he ended up starving on the streets of Biarritz.

  The Countess immediately wondered if it was Milo who had thrown the knife that killed the bandit and not Velazquez. Velazquez had shaky hands, after all. It was not really relevant, it merely underscored not to jump to conclusions.

  Moriarty was dressed less formally than social dictate allowed. He was wearing a dark green velvet smoking jacket which the Countess found extremely becoming. He was smoking a cigarette and appeared to be studying the ikons in the chapel.

  “Do you know what this says? I think it’s in Greek.”

  The Countess was not fluent in Greek but the Cyrillic alphabet was enough of a likeness to be able to guess. “It says: Pantocrator. They’ve made it into two words: Panto-crator, either side of the saint’s image.”

  “What about this ikon of the Virgin and Child?”

  She peered closer. “It says: Krym. That refers to the Crimea. Are you interested in ikons?”

  “I’m thinking of purchasing some for the chapel at Ballyfolly,” he replied briskly, grabbing the nearest candelabra and moving to the front door where a recent inscription could be seen carved into the stone lintel. “This is Latin. What do you make of it?”

  “Homo homini lupus est – that translates as: Man to men a wolf is.”

  “Man is a wolf to other men?”

  She nodded. “I thought Latin was on the syllabus at Eton and Oxford?”

  “My two brothers attended Oxford and were fluent in Latin but my education was not on a par. The family fortune had seriously dwindled by the time I came along and I was pretty much left to educate myself. There was no money for tutors and the brave few who took up the paltry offer of room and board didn’t stay long. Fortunately, the old pile had a well-stocked library, albeit moth-eaten and mildewed. I taught myself to read.”

  “You mentioned your first brother was a mathematician?”

  “And an astronomer. You may have heard of his book: The Dynamics of an Asteroid.”

  She had actually read it and found it rather obtuse and rambling. “And the second was a musical composer?”

  “Yes, his magnum opus is titled: The Seven Spheres of Heaven.”

  “And you entered the military?”

  “Yes, it was the making of me. I took to killing with natural born flair.”

  “Indeed. Speaking of killing, I have something you can help me with.”

  “What makes you assume I undertake private commissions?” His tone was dry.

  “I never assume anything.”

  “Very wise - has Dr Watson outgrown his charm?”

  “Certainly not, besides, if I wanted to bump him off I would do it myself.”

  “Indeed. It might be the making of you.”

  This sort of banter was jolly fun but she was conscious they didn’t have much time before the others joined them in the great hall, and Xenia had just entered to set the table for dinner, which made the timing perfect.

  “What I have in mind is a little experiment. It seems that the Singing Wolf was entertaining someone in her bedchamber the night she disappeared. Velazquez claimed to have heard panting and heavy breathing from the doorway that leads to the spiral – ”

  Moriarty threw back his head and laughed loudly. “How on earth did you manage to squeeze that out of the toreador?”

  “Not with the threat of torture,” she returned flatly. “Anyhow, I just want to see if it is possible to hear heavy breathing from behind the tapestry. I see my maid is setting the table. We can enlist her help. She will remain here and we will slip upstairs and engage in some heavy breathing.”

  “Must I limit myself to heavy breathing?”

  “Panting is allowed.”

  “Groaning?”

  “I will do the groaning.”

  “I presume thrusting is out of the question?”

  “You can thrust all you like but not in my direction.”

  “More’s the pity.”

  The Countess quickly explained to Xenia what was expected. She was to stand by the sideboard and listen. Then lift back the tapestry and listen again. It would not take long.

  As soon as they entered the bedchamber Moriarty leapt on to the bed, stretched out his legs and placed his hands behind his head; the breadth of his smile and the twinkle in his Irish eyes told her how much he was enjoying himself.

  “Get off the bed,” she instructed curtly. “If the Singing Wolf was entertaining someone in here she was not doing it in her bed. The bed was unruffled. You can take up a position on the floor at the foot of the bed and I will take the daybed.”

  “I haven’t ha
d this much fun since my fifth birthday.”

  “What happened on your fifth birthday?”

  “I got a pony.”

  “I suppose you were a natural born horseman?”

  “Not really. I fell off and apparently bawled my eyes out. My father was disgusted.”

  “I bet you stopped crying and got straight back up onto that little pony?”

  “Indeed.”

  “And it was the making of you! Let’s start.”

  “I take it this heavy breathing and panting turned a bit rough?”

  “I believe it did. Can you extemporise?”

  “I’ll just close my eyes and think of that pony.”

  “Good boy!”

  It was all they could do to stop from bursting out laughing, but who could have guessed that feigning ecstasy could be so hilarious. Moriarty was astounded the Countess had gotten the faking of it down to such a fine art. At one stage he looked across to the daybed to see if perhaps she really had entered a state of female bliss. By the time they had finished he was convinced that aural stimulation played a much bigger part in pleasure than he had hitherto imagined.

  In the meantime, Dr Watson entered the great hall and asked Xenia what she was doing.

  “Listening to the Countess,” she said. “She is with the bad Irish upstairs.”

  Dr Watson joined Xenia under the arch, turned brick red, whirled on his heel and stomped downstairs to the kitchen, livid with anger. He was still so rigid with indignation when it came time to change the bandages on Milo’s hands he could barely re-wrap them.

  “What happened to your pony?”

  “The next time I fell off it my father shot it.”

  17

  Natural Born Liar

  “One of them was lying,” declared Prince Orczy as he popped the cork on the champagne and poured a glass for the Countess and himself.

  “I think they were all lying,” asserted Reichenbach, eschewing French bubbly and opting for cognac. “Where on earth is von Gunn now? I knocked on his door as I was passing and didn’t get a reply. Dinner is about to be served. It is damned bad manners.”