The Curse of the Singing Wolf

by Anna Lord

“Where did she come from?”

  “She lives here at Chanteloup. This is her home. She is the daughter of the Singing Wolf. Almaric and Hortense are charged with caring for her year round. When the Singing Wolf vanished the old couple became worried and hid the girl. She is charming, precocious, spoilt and very pretty. Her presence has explained a lot but not everything.”

  “Such as?”

  “The Singing Wolf does not know who fathered her child. She must have narrowed it down to the four men she contrived to lure to Chanteloup, hence the fire in the kitchen at the Hotel Louve. She made advance preparations for the four men to meet Lalique. Lalique knew she was going to meet her maman’s four friends. She was given a new dress and new slippers to mark the occasion. I don’t quite understand how the Singing Wolf expected to determine the father, since all four men were sleeping with her at the time of conception.”

  He grunted disapprovingly. “Hmph, that’s what comes when morality goes out the window.”

  “As it did for my father and mother?” she said coldly.

  He’d completely forgotten about Sherlock and That Woman. It was damn difficult to lecture her on morality in such a case. He forced himself to remain objective. “Perhaps she was hoping one of the men would recognize a family trait and do the honourable thing.”

  “Well, it’s interesting you should say that. Are you familiar with Mendelian Inheritance?”

  “His book on pea plants?”

  “I was thinking of its application to inherited traits in humans.”

  “Go on,” he invited dubiously.

  “All four men are blond and blue-eyed, as is Lalique, whereas the Singing Wolf was brown-eyed and dark haired. The men were disputing the child could be hers. I explained to them about dominant and recessive traits.”

  He smiled to himself. “Did they comprehend the science?”

  “I think so. The existence of the girl has shocked them. I think they accept one of them has fathered the girl but they don’t know what to do about it, especially as the Singing Wolf is no longer around to confirm or deny anything. I just thought I should explain things to you before you joined us for dinner. You may find the dinner table conversation a little strange and the men flummoxed.”

  “Well, that will make a change. They are an arrogant bunch. Did you say the girl will be present too?”

  “Yes.”

  “I might get up now. I want to take a look at Milo’s body. Where was it taken?”

  “To the cellar.”

  “I want to look at the stiletto too.”

  “Baron Reichenbach has it.”

  “What? It should be with the body so that the gendarmes can hand it to the police surgeon or the Surete. It may not even be the murder weapon.”

  “It was sticking out of his chest when the body was discovered,” she reminded.

  He rolled his eyes. “And you call yourself a consulting detective. You should know better. Verify all facts.”

  She stopped pacing and slapped the side of her head. “You’re right. I’ve been stupid.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself. At least you found the phantom.” He refrained from asking what she was doing in the bathroom of the south tower, mainly because embarrassment had a way of rebounding and in the end he would be the one to turn bright red.

  “Mmm,” she muttered. “I wonder if the existence of the girl puts Velazquez’s testimony in a different light.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, Velazquez said he heard heavy breathing and panting coming from the south tower as if the Singing Wolf was entertaining a man in her bed which I assumed might be Sarazan or even Velazquez, but the girl told me she slept in her mother’s bed whenever her mother came to Chanteloup. Moriarty and I even conducted an experiment of heavy breathing to verify whether the sound would carry down stairs. Xenia was listening at the landing. But now I’m wondering if -”

  “Say that again.”

  “Now I’m wondering if the girl may have been with her mother that night.”

  “Yes, er, yes, that’s a natural assumption to make. Sometimes it takes time for assumptions to catch up with us. We make an assumption based on what we understand at the time only to find out later that we have been mistaken.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “I might have to rethink the black leather costume. I assumed it belonged to Sarazan and he was a regular visitor to the south tower but it might just be an opera costume after all. And speaking of costumes - the red and gold dress has been puzzling me. No one likes to think badly of children but I wonder if Lalique slashed it to punish her maman for her long absences or for inexplicably vanishing and spoiling the happy occasion she was expecting when the four male visitors arrived. I’ll need to think about it some more. See you at dinner.”

  Lalique looked as fragile as a glass angel, a china doll with vibrant yellow hair that curled out like a shimmering aureole across the pillow. The Countess sat at the side of the bed and listened to her soft breathing, contemplating the maternal instinct. If such a thing was inherited along with eye colour and hair colour her chance of having inherited it was unlikely. Neither of her parents had been cut out for parenthood. That’s not to say they would not have loved her unreservedly, but they would have loved other things more. She might have been the one sleeping in this bed with a stranger looking down at her, fondly yet sadly; a collection of unknown fathers to choose from and an absent mother who had vanished into thin air. What mother would wish that on a child?

  Who would love this child? Who would care for her now?

  Prince Orczy had no place to call home, just a string of hotels, and no money either. He moved from one gaming salon to another, one step ahead of his creditors. Moriarty had no habitable family seat as yet and a dubious career as what? A speculator? A Fenian? A hired assassin? Not much of a life for a little girl, being dragged from one kill to another. Von Gunn had twelve castles and plenty of money, but that just meant the girl would have more places in which to feel truly lonely. Reichenbach was the oldest of the men, a confirmed bachelor, but did he really want to take on the up-bringing of a girl-child at this stage in his life? But what was the alternative? Leave the girl here in this isolated stronghold to be raised by Almaric and Hortense? Children needed the company of other children. They needed playmates. The girl had reached an age where she would soon need a proper governess and decent tutors. Who would employ them? Who would supervise them? Who would look out for her best interests?

  “Hello.”

  Lalique yawned and stretched and smiled drowsily. “Is it time for dinner?”

  “Nearly, I just want to ask you one question before you get dressed.”

  “Is it about maman?”

  “Yes, I was wondering if you slept in the big bed the night your maman arrived with her friends?”

  Lalique shook her head. “No, I was already tucked into my cot. Maman came down to the little room and kissed me and told me I needed to stay in the cot until she came back to get me. She told me she was busy with her visitors and that I would need to be patient a little longer. She said she was saving the grand surprise for the next day. She promised she would come to get me later in the night and take me to her big bed but she never came back. I waited and waited but she did not come.”

  “While you were waiting did you see anyone?”

  “Oc, after Almaric and Hortense fell asleep I crept out of bed. I saw the ugly black girl in the kitchen dipping some bread into the little dish of aioli and drinking a cup of cold tea. She had terrible manners. She stuffed the bread into her big fat mouth and slurped her tea so loudly I could hear it from my hiding spot.”

  “Did you see anyone else?”

  “Oc, I saw the Spanish servant go up the stairs to the great hall. While he was gone I saw the boy with the knife in his sock come to get some bread too. He cut the bread with his knife; he cut two slices. He dipped it in the aioli and chewed with his mouth open. He had even worse manners than the black girl. He wiped his chin wit
h his sleeve. I did that once and got a smack on the head from Hortense.”

  “What else happened?”

  “The boy went to the stairs and listened as if he heard something.”

  “Which stairs?”

  “The round stairs to maman’s bedchamber. I thought maman was coming to get me. But no one came.”

  “Did you see what the boy did next?”

  “He went back to the bread and cut another slice. This time he cut it really thick. He dipped it in the aioli and tore it with his teeth and swallowed it without even chewing.”

  “And then?”

  She thought for a moment. “He must have heard a noise that gave him a fright. He put his knife in his sock and hurried back to his bed.”

  “What happened then?”

  “The Spanish one came back.”

  “Did he go into the room of the black girl?”

  She puckered her little forehead and shook her golden locks. “No, he went into the room of the pretty one. I heard her tell him to get out.”

  “Where did he go then?”

  “Back to his own room that he shared with the boy.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Oc, I waited a little time then I crawled into bed with Hortense and fell asleep. In the morning I woke up back in my own cot and that’s when Almaric told me we had to play hide and seek.”

  21

  Le Roman de la Rose

  Who was lying? Milo, Desi, Inez, Velazquez or Lalique?

  Although lying might be too harsh a term. A lapse of memory, a bit of hedging, a slight dissimulation might be more to the point. Milo didn’t mention getting anything to eat. He didn’t mention hearing a noise on the back stairs. Were these just innocent oversights or deliberate obfuscations? Desi said Velazquez went to Inez’s room first and then after being rebuffed came into her room. But Lalique said he went to his own room after being rebuffed by Inez. Was Desi speaking out of jealousy? Was it all fantasy? She was a fifteen year old girl and Velazquez was a handsome toreador – why not dream a little. Was Milo killed because he saw somebody that night? Did he confront them and pay the price? Did Lalique really remember what happened in such perfect order? Or was she just making it up the way a child makes up a fairy story? She was certainly precocious enough to invent things and here at Chanteloup in the heart of the Pays d’Oc where troubadours refined the art of story-telling and the word trobar meant to invent she had been constantly surrounded by vivid fabliaux from which to draw inspiration. Prior to dinner she had entertained them with Occitan folk songs and had even managed to recite a couple of stanzas from Le Roman de la Rose, and if her mother had been the black rose, the daughter was the yellow.

  Dinner consisted of cassoulet. This was a tasty white bean stew with meaty chunks of pork cooked in a cassole which was carried steaming hot to the table to be served into large bowls. It was best eaten with a soup spoon.

  The cassoulet smelled divine and Dr Watson was starving. “Where’s von Gunn?” he asked as he measured out libations of Gaillac wine to go with the meal, skipping his own glass.

  “He’s probably sleeping,” said the Prince. “I left him on the ramparts when the wind kept blowing out my cigar. He said he was going to walk a bit further and then have a rest in his room. His head was pounding.”

  “Let him sleep. We can start without him,” decided Moriarty, who was also feeling hungrier than usual.

  They discussed the rockslide and agreed it was likely to be cleared by tomorrow. That meant they would be able to leave. They had a disappearance and a death to contend with but it was unanimously agreed to leave it to the gendarmes in Lourdes. They did not expect the brigands to be a problem. Their numbers were depleted and if they had any sense they would have high-tailed it east ahead of the winter snow.

  Dessert was a clafoutis of black cherries. It was followed by coffee and a few favourite cheeses, including a Roquefort and a Bleu Auvergne.

  After dinner, feeling sated and secretly relieved that their sojourn at Chanteloup was coming to an end, they lit some cigars and decamped to the comfortable chairs by the fire. The Countess read a chapter of Le Roman de la Rose in fluent French while Lalique mimed the actions, proving once again that she was a natural born actress.

  At ten o’clock the girl kissed everyone goodnight, and in case she had not yet endeared herself to the men, that sweet gesture cemented her adorableness. Off she went to sleep in the big bed in the south tower. After she’d skipped out of the hall thoughts turned to the German.

  “I’ll go and check on him,” said the Prince, echoing the concerns of the others. Under normal circumstances they would have left him to sleep until morning, but nothing at Chanteloup could be considered normal.

  Prince Orczy returned a few moments later to say that von Gunn was nowhere to be found. He had checked the garderobe and looked quickly into all the bedrooms, even though their doors had been bolted from the outside. The door at the end of the corridor was also bolted. That meant von Gunn was still outside. Storm lanterns were organized and everyone bar the Countess set off to scour the ramparts. When the ramparts came up empty they searched the stable and outbuildings, courtyards and baileys. They were about to move the search inside when Dr Watson noticed the main gate was open. It stunned them all. Von Gunn was found nearby. The portcullis had been raised and had come down on top of him. A couple of wolves were prowling around the body. Moriarty grabbed a flaming torch to scare them off. It allowed the others to drag the body in and secure the gates. Von Gunn was dead.

  The body was carried into the armoury and placed on a table. With the aid of several lanterns Dr Watson managed a cursory examination. A single deep gash in the chest indicated the German had been stabbed before being positioned under the portcullis to make it appear as though he had been crushed and speared by the medieval gate. It would have taken significant strength to debar the gate, raise the portcullis, move the body into position and then lower the portcullis – and for what? The theatrical effect? The dramatic pose? The sense of horror and fear it created in the hearts and minds of those who found it? If not for the deep gash they might all have assumed the German had been attempting to flee. That he had opened the gate and raised the portcullis just high enough to squeeze under and had met with a fatal accident, but the stab wound to the chest disproved that theory. Von Gunn had been murdered.

  They were back to square one. Was Sarazan able to come and go at will? Was there a lunatic at large? And then the terrible realization they did not wish to voice – was the Singing Wolf orchestrating the bizarre set of events? Was she a murderess? Was she seeking revenge against the four men for the fathering of her child?

  Xenia had been charged with keeping watch over the sleeping girl. All was safe there.

  The Countess retired to the quiet of her bedroom to think about this latest murder while the men interrogated the servants. She summoned Inez to her room a short time later. The sultry flamenco dancer had been crying bitterly and looked scared to death. She fell gratefully into the chair the Countess waved her to when her long legs appeared to give way.

  “Did you know your mistress had a child?”

  Inez shook her head firmly. “No, no, never! When I saw the girl at the dinner table I thought she was an angel from heaven. Desi thought the girl was a ghost. Her black face went white and she trembled all over. She could not speak for hours and hours. It was like she had lost the power of speech. I think she is very easily frightened by things she does not understand. She grew up in an orphanage and she told me once that the sisters were cruel. They were especially cruel to her because of her black skin. Every noise makes her jump now. I thought the old couple was behaving strangely from the first day the mistress went missing but I thought maybe they had killed her. I never thought they might be hiding a child.”

  “Was Velazquez the lover of the Singing Wolf?”

  “No, the mistress could pick and choose the men she wanted in her bed and she chose men who were both rich and han
dsome.”

  “Was Velazquez your lover?”

  “No.” She bit her lip and twisted the damp handkerchief in her lap.

  “No? Why not? You are young and lovely. And he was a hot-blooded toreador. There is no shame in passion. Did the Singing Wolf not approve?”

  Inez dropped her gaze. “It was not like that. Velazquez, well, he preferred men. He went to the bed of men who liked to sleep with men. Sometimes he went to the beds of the ladies who came to the hotel, but there were not many ladies, and he did not like it much.”

  “He was a male gigolo?”

  Inez looked up quickly, a fiery flash of defiance in her dark Spanish eyes. “No! No! He was not like that. He was shy. It was his -”

  The Countess waited while Inez bit her lip some more. “It was his…what?”

  “Duty.”

  The Countess repeated the broken phrases for her own benefit. “He slept with the guests who came to the Hotel Louve because it was his duty. In other words, the Singing Wolf instructed him to sleep with the guests. If we had stayed there longer he would have slept with me, though he would have preferred a man. But if he is not a gigolo then – oh, I see, it allowed the Singing Wolf to blackmail her guests afterwards.”

  The penny dropped, or in this case, two pennies – a handsome toreador and a beautiful flamenco dancer!

  “It was your job to sleep with the men who came to the hotel, the men who preferred women!”

  Inez flushed dark red and dropped her gaze once more.

  “If we had stayed longer at the hotel you would have slept with Dr Watson? You slept with the four men who are here at Chanteloup right now? Am I right?”

  “No! Never! They belonged to the mistress!”

  The Countess began thinking out loud, ordering her thoughts, groping for meaning. “You slept with the ones the mistress did not want. But what shame is there if the men have slept with you? This is a foreign country. Such things are permissible. Some men would even brag about it back home with their friends. It could only be Velazquez who could be useful for blackmail – oh, hang on, of course! The story-telling! You extract secrets from the men you bed during moments of intimacy. Perhaps they have had too much to drink and you ask them certain questions about their past. You pass the information onto your mistress and she then blackmails them. That is what happens!”