The Curse of the Singing Wolf

by Anna Lord

  “I’ll go and hurry him up,” volunteered Moriarty, feeling benevolent to all mankind, including wealthy German industrialists.

  Dr Watson arrived looking red-faced.

  “Where have you been?” quizzed Moriarty good-humouredly on his way out. “Don’t tell me you’ve been chasing the elusive phantom again!”

  Dr Watson grunted something as he tramped to the sideboard, poured a generous measure of sweet sherry into a wine goblet and drained the lot. Alarmed, the Countess immediately sidled up to him.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Just dandy,” he ground out through gritted teeth as he showed her a cold shoulder and went to take out his anger on the coals in the fireplace, stabbing them viciously with the poker, creating a flurry of sparks, several of which singed the Turkey rug.

  “I’ve just bedded the fire down,” said the Baron.

  Dr Watson glared at the Prussian and viciously stabbed the coals a second time.

  The Countess decided to divert any unpleasantness and settle a point of curiosity at the same time. “Baron Reichenbach, do you know which opera launched the career of the Singing Wolf?”

  He considered the question briefly. “I believe it was the Oberammergau Passion Play.”

  “That’s not an opera,” argued the Prince. “It was Otello. I cannot remember the exact year.”

  “Oh, yes, that’s right,” agreed the Baron. “La Scala. She caused a sensation in that red and gold dress you mentioned earlier, Countess.”

  “And the fact she was a good head taller than the leading man,” laughed the Prince.

  Reichenbach guffawed loudly. “That’s right! Otello was supposed to be a military hero and here was this short, fat, roly-poly figure with too much grease-paint! Half way through the second act his face began to melt. I must admit he could sing all right. But she saved the night. She was sensational! Every man in the audience fell in love with her that night.” He sighed wistfully.

  Moriarty returned looking vexed, some tightness in his throat betrayed his agitation. “Von Gunn’s not in his room. The door at the end of the west wing has been unbolted. I’ll check the western ramparts. Reichenbach, you and Orczy check outside – go out through the kitchen. Dr Watson, if you could locate the Countess’s manservant – then check the cellar and dungeons. Countess, you remain here, should he come back while we’re out you can let us know.”

  As soon as the men dispersed the Countess ventured down the west corridor to peek into the bedrooms to see what furniture had in fact been moved when she heard a groaning sound. It was coming from the garderobe. Von Gunn was lying on the floor. Either he had fainted due to that concussion he’d suffered earlier or he was still searching for Cathar loot and had passed out when he leaned over too quickly. She helped him to his feet. By the time they got to his room he was feeling better and waved away the offer of her manservant to help him dress.

  “Have a cognac standing by!” he shouted as she left him to it.

  She was passing Moriarty’s room when she paused and looked back over her shoulder to check no one was coming then tiptoed in. His furniture had not been deranged but she saw at a glance that he had cut the backing away from the frames around the oil paintings of Irish scenes and exposed the canvases. He had also cut the leather binding away from three books on the history of the Cathars. There was no doubt he was searching for some sort of paper. It had to be a map. There was nothing else it could be. She could hear the door at the end of the corridor slam shut. The bolt slid home. She hurried out to meet him.

  “I found von Gunn in the garderobe. He’d fainted. He’s in his room changing for dinner. He’ll join us shortly.”

  “Bloody fool!” cursed the Irishman, glancing at the bolt to his room – it was sitting a fraction short of the end yet he knew he had shot it home.

  Xenia was in the dining room. She’d brought up a tureen of green borscht. The Countess sent her to alert the others that von Gunn had been found. Twenty minutes later they were seated around the table. Dr Watson took the chair farthest from the Countess. He drained a full glass of grand cru and poured himself another before he’d had his first mouthful of soup. He looked like thunder and the Countess was worried. The tension was clearly getting to him. It was time to apprise the men of her thoughts in the hope one of them might betray himself.

  “Last night when I was interrogating Velazquez he admitted he had crept upstairs to have something to drink on our first night at Chanteloup. While he was in the great hall he heard a noise coming from the bedroom in the south tower. He believed the Singing Wolf was entertaining someone in her bedchamber.”

  “Are you saying she had a man in her bed?” exclaimed the Baron.

  “Not in her bed, specifically, for the bedding was untouched from the time it had been turned down by the chamber maid, but in her room, yes.”

  “Are we talking intercourse?” clarified von Gunn, rubbing his throbbing egg.

  “Yes.”

  “Who was it?” asked the Prince looking to spot the guilty party and wondering why Moriarty seemed unsurprised.

  “That’s a good question,” replied the Countess. “Velazquez thought it was one of you and was terrified of being murdered if he spoke up – that incidentally is why he fled - but it now appears that it may have been Sarazan.”

  “What!” spluttered the Baron, spraying green soup across the table.

  “Impossible!” exploded von Gunn.

  Prince Orczy laughed dismissively. “How did Sarazan get in?”

  “She let him in.”

  The men exchanged incredulous glances, and this time Moriarty was also surprised, for though he was aware the Countess believed a man had been in the south tower on that first fateful night he had assumed it to be one of his compatriots.

  “What about the rockslide? How did the outlaw get past that?” he pressed sceptically.

  “He would know the mountain tracks like the back of his hand. If he didn’t need to use the zigzag path, meaning he didn’t arrive on horseback at the gate, then he may have clambered up on foot, found the portcullis and gate open, the front door open and simply walked in. There was a man’s costume hanging in the closet upstairs. It was the sort of thing a brigand would wear.”

  “In the closet of the Singing Wolf?” clarified the Prince.

  “Yes.”

  “That implies he was a regular visitor,” reasoned the Irishman.

  “Yes.”

  “I recall the front door was unbolted the next day when we checked,” said Reichenbach grimly, “but who closed the gate and lowered the portcullis?”

  “If the Singing Wolf was alive she would have done it,” offered von Gunn. “But if Sarazan killed her then it could only be the old man. I can beat the truth out of him after dinner.”

  “There’s no need for that,” tempered the Countess. “I think it is highly likely Sarazan took the body with him when he left. It may have been part of that reincarnation belief. In which case, it could only have been the old man. There is no need to beat the truth out of someone when the truth is glaringly obvious.”

  “Typical response from a woman!” grunted von Gunn. “That’s why things of this nature are best left to men.”

  “Hang on!” said Reichenbach, dabbing his chin with his napkin and frowning. “Sarazan may well have been the Singing Wolf’s lover but our bedrooms all face inwardly toward the north gate. We would surely have heard the portcullis being raised and lowered. Have any of you heard the clanking sound those old gates make?”

  “I have,” said the German. “Seven of my castles have portcullises. They creak and groan. I agree we would have woken.”

  Inez arrived carrying a large earthenware pot. An appetising smell filled the hall. Desi brought a basket of bread for mopping up the juices of their rabbit in red wine with mushrooms and potatoes. It was Inez who served the meal and Desi who carted the soup bowls away.

  Conversation ceased while the two female servants remained in the hall
, not only because suspicions were running high, and the least said the better, but because Inez had some huge red welts on one half of her face and had clearly been crying bitterly.

  Prince Orczy broke the silence as soon as Inez retreated. “Did you see her face?”

  “Yes,” the others muttered.

  “Since this is an issue concerning female domestics,” said Reichenbach. “It might be best left to the Countess to deal with. My advice, gentlemen, is to ignore it.”

  “Pass the salt and pepper,” nodded the Prince, directing his request at Dr Watson who had remained morosely silent so far. “I agree about the portcullis. It makes a racket and it is damned difficult to raise and lower. Fedir turned the shaft this morning and his face showed the strain. There is no way the old man could have done it on his own, nor could the Singing Wolf have done it after her lover left her.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” said Moriarty. “And who’s to say Velazquez was not lying when he claimed he heard, er, certain noises from the bedchamber. He might have been the lover in question and was covering his tracks.”

  Von Gunn nodded. “I sometimes wondered why the Singing Wolf kept him on. He was a nervy drunk, everyone could see that, and yet she retained his services.”

  “Devilishly handsome though,” mused the Prince. “The sort women go for.”

  “We shall take your word for it,” affirmed the Irishman sardonically. “I think it fair to say you have extensive experience in that regard.”

  Orczy laughed, taking no offence.

  “Velazquez might have been doing more than covering his tracks,” suggested Reichenbach. “He might have been giving himself an alibi.”

  “You mean he might have killed the Singing Wolf?” posed von Gunn.

  “Yes.”

  “That would explain why he fled,” agreed the Irishman circumspectly. “It may not even have been a deliberate killing, but accidental, something that happened in the heat of the moment, during some rather rough and heavy, er, love-making.” He was careful not to look at the Countess. “He may have panicked afterwards and disposed of the body.”

  “How?” challenged the Countess, forcing his gaze. “We’ve been over that? A search revealed nothing.”

  “A cursory search,” reminded Moriarty, undaunted. “There are any number of ways he could have disposed of the body. If we put our minds to it we could probably come up with a dozen ways right now.”

  “Very well,” she said briskly, “let’s do that.”

  “A secret chamber,” offered von Gunn, first up, who was obviously still thinking about hidden loot and secret tunnels. “All castles have one. Call them what you will. Priest’s holes, silver rooms, medieval safes for storing gold coins, escape hatches or oubliettes.”

  “The chute in the garderobe,” suggested the Baron. “I know it is fitted with an iron grid but the spacing is wider than that of the portcullis. If the body had been chopped up it could have been pushed through the openings. He had all night. He could have used the axe in the wood yard, wrapped the bloody limbs in rags or even used garments from her closet, and shoved them out of sight that way.”

  “A bit gruesome,” said the Prince distastefully, spearing a morsel of stewed bunny swimming red juices. “Remind me not to get on your wrong side, Reichenbach. However, I see nothing wrong with your reasoning. And since we are talking axes – he could have chopped the body up and thrown it over the side for the wolves to feast on.”

  “They are probably feasting on him as we speak,” observed von Gunn blandly. “It is a fitting end to the handsome devil if that is the case.”

  “He could have simply hidden the body under the wood stack,” offered Moriarty. “The simplest alternative is often the most successful despite what some of these gothique novelists would have us believe. I don’t believe Velazquez had a lot of imagination. Recall that story Desi told about him murdering his friend by shoving him in the way of el toro during the bull-run in Pamplona – simple, effective and successful.” He finished speaking and looked directly at the lady seated to his right.

  “I cannot offer a scenario,” she said simply. “I don’t believe he murdered the Singing Wolf.”

  She looked at Dr Watson seated at the far end of the table. He had not spoken a single syllable since they sat down to dinner. He gave a careless shrug of his shoulders as he drained his glass of grand cru. He was looking a little red-faced but it was not from exertion or embarrassment. He’d had enough red wine to drown a whole vat of hapless bunnies.

  “I have no opinion on the matter whatsoever.”

  As far as he was concerned he couldn’t care less who murdered their missing hostess or where her body had been stashed. He was sick to death of murder mysteries. He was through with chasing down clues and speculating about motive and catching criminals. What the Countess had done was criminal. He wanted to take her by the shoulders and give her a violent shake. In fact, he was so angry he could have hit her - a shocking thing to admit, especially as he had always prided himself on being a gentleman. If not for the memory of his dear departed Mary, he might have lost control. It was only the preciousness of his undying love for her that compelled him to remember not every woman had the same moral principles. Still, it came as a blow. He had grown fond of the Countess. He had started to regard her as a boon companion. They had experienced much in the short time they had been thrust together, and though he had often carped and complained, he had secretly enjoyed every minute. She had given his stale old life new purpose and meaning and fillip – a joie de vivre no man his age could sensibly hope for. Sometimes, he even regarded her as the daughter he’d never had. How often had he said to himself: Mary would have liked her. Mary would have approved. In fanciful moments he even imagined Mary looking down at him and smiling, happy that he had found someone with whom to share fresh adventures. He had told himself Sherlock would have approved too. He had almost managed to convince himself that she was who she said she was and that all would end well. He had even started to picture a happy family reunion in Sussex at Christmastime. Ha! Fool that he was! Old fool! The worst sort! If she was who she claimed to be then she was her mother’s daughter, NOT her father’s! She had betrayed the memory of her father, no, worse, she had trampled that memory in the dust, she had trampled all over it, she had sullied it and soiled it, she was undeserving of respect and credit, she did not deserve to be acknowledged as the daughter of Sherlock Holmes!

  “I thall call it a night, gentlemen,” he lisped.

  “Are you all right?” queried the Irishman, noting how the doctor appeared to sway dangerously from side to side as he pushed to his feet.

  “I am perfectly fine, thank you, Colonel Moriarty,” he returned somewhat pompously, wondering why the room had started spinning. He navigated his way past the sideboard, snatched up the bottle of sherry, and began weaving like a drunken sailor in a storm toward the archway that led to the east corridor, though it appeared that someone had moved it since he had last ventured that way. “A pleathant goodnight to one and all,” he slurred, “and the Counteth too.”

  They watched him wrestle with the tapestry until he found an opening and squeezed through it.

  “I cannot abide men who cannot hold their liquor,” pronounced von Gunn, mopping up the last of his juices.

  “I’d say someone has rubbed the good doctor the wrong way,” commented the Prince a little more sympathetically.

  “Don’t look at me!” defended Moriarty. “I had nothing to do with what happened to his friend. I am not my brother!”

  “Nor me!” vowed Reichenbach. “I have gone out of my way to be civil to the doctor.”

  “I suppose it was the death of his friend that turned him into a dipsomaniac,” said the Prince sadly. “He probably blamed himself for not doing enough to prevent it.” He turned to the Countess. “How long have you been acquainted with the doctor?”

  “We met two months ago.”

  “And you have been travelling together sin
ce?”

  “Yes – and I have never known him to drink to excess.”

  “I believe I read in one of his stories that his brother was an alcoholic,” said the Baron. “It is a moral aberration that can run in families. Shall we go back to what we were discussing?”

  “There is no point speculating further as to the whereabouts of the body of our hostess,” said Moriarty crisply. “We have no idea where it is and that is that. Can we have a show of hands: Who thinks she was murdered by Sarazan?” The Countess raised her hand. “Who thinks she was murdered by Velazquez?” The four men all raised their hands.

  That was that!

  Desi and Xenia arrived to clear the plates. Inez, puffy-eyed, served the apple pie that had remained untouched from the night before. Conversation moved to the topic of the opera while the servants were present.

  Reichenbach directed his question at von Gunn. “The Countess was enquiring prior to dinner which opera launched the career of the Singing Wolf. Orczy said it was Otello. But I have since wondered if in fact it might have been Rigoletto and she sang the role of Gilda.”

  “No, no, definitely Otello! She wore a red and gold dress that clung to every curve. I remember it well. How could you forget? I admit it was many years ago but it made a lasting impression on me! Remember the role of the jealous hero! He was as black as the ace of spades and as fat as a plum pudding on legs! Iago was handsomer and stronger but he was the wrong colour!”

  “No, no,” said the Prince. “Otello’s blacking almost melted in the limelight. It was Iago who was actually black. They powdered his face to whiten it. It took on a sickly hue and made him look even more evil. The lady I was with trembled every time he came on stage. I remember her grabbing my thigh whenever he sang the high notes.”

  “That sounds right!” laughed von Gunn. “That’s exactly the sort of thing you would remember, Orczy! You lucky devil!”

  The servants retreated and the Countess changed the subject.