by Anna Lord
“Desi I know you’re in there. I know you had your reasons for doing what you did. Life can be cruel. Life was cruel to you. No girl should have had to endure what you endured.”
Fists pounded on the door and the voice was choked with hatred. “What do you know! What do you know! How can you know what I have endured?”
“I know your father and mother both turned their backs on you. Mine did the same.”
“Liar!” she shouted convulsively. “Liar!”
“My story could have been yours. But where I was sold to a good man you were left to cruel Fate. An orphanage where you were mistreated -”
“The holy sisters of mercy! Monsters without hearts!”
“A circus where you were abused and humiliated -”
“I was half-ape half-woman from the Congo! They put me in a cage so that men could poke sticks at me and butt their cigarettes on me and laugh.”
The Countess winced and felt choked with pity. She swallowed hard and forced herself to go on. “You learned to throw knives in the circus?”
“Yes! Alfonso taught me to throw knives. He had a pretty assistant, Violetta, who would stand still while he threw knives at her. I threw a knife at her once. I got her in the throat. Serves her right for laughing at me! After that I ran away.”
“You ran to where you knew you would find your mother?”
“Yes.”
“You got her name from the holy sisters?”
“Yes.”
“You begged for a job? Did your mother know who you were?”
“No - not until the night I came to her room and told her. She called me a liar but I could see in her eyes she knew it was true. She gave me away. She wanted to forget me. But she knew I was her flesh and blood. She told me that when we returned to Biarritz I would have to leave the Hotel Louve. She told me not to try to blackmail her. She knew what to do with blackmailers. I strangled her. I put my hands around her throat and…and…”
“And then you hid the body?”
“Yes - you will never find it!”
The Countess knew now was not the time to press the point. If Desi did not wish to reveal where she had hidden the body no words would force it out of her. Better to move on and perhaps come back to the point later.
“You guessed the name of your father?”
“How do you know?”
“You guessed correctly that you were conceived the night your mother played Desdemona. You were named after the tragic heroine. Your father was Iago. That was not his real name. What was it?”
“Balthazar Brunetti.”
“Of course! The famous Black Baritone! He was a great singer but not considered handsome enough for the role of the hero. He took his own life when Otello finished up. He probably never even knew the Singing Wolf was having his baby.”
Desi began to sob bitterly and pound on the door with her fists. “She was selfish! A vain witch! I hated her! She deserved to die for what she did to me!”
“But you took your revenge - where did you put her body?”
Desi stopped crying. “Ha! You’ll never find it!”
The Countess changed tack. “You killed Milo too – why? He was never cruel. You said you liked him.”
Desi’s voice sounded thick with tears again. “I had to kill him. He knew it was me. I didn’t know he was in the kitchen getting food that night. Inez told me. He had to die. He was in the woodshed throwing his knife. We had a competition to see who was the best knife-thrower. He was good but I was better. I threw it at his heart. I never miss. It was me who killed the bandit. Milo’s hands were still sore and he gave me his knife. We pretended it was Velazquez because that’s what everyone thought. Velazquez was proud to look so brave. I didn’t want to kill Milo. He was the only one who was never cruel to me. He was my friend but I had to kill him. I had to…”
She began to weep and the Countess gave her time to mourn her only friend. When the tears had finally run their course the Countess continued to piece together the tragic picture.
“Herr von Gunn was cruel – did he deserve to die too for his cruelty?”
“Yes!” she spat out vehemently. “He was always speaking to me like I was a dog. I threw the knife at him. I never miss. I opened the big gate and pulled up the other gate and dragged him under it and let it down so you would think it was the gate that killed him. Good riddance to men who are pigs!”
“What about Lalique? She was not a man or a pig or cruel. She was your half-sister. Were you jealous?”
“Yes! Yes! She had been given everything and I had been given nothing! She had been cherished. I had been slapped and kicked and caged and burned. She had laughed while I had been laughed at. She had played while I had toiled. She had been born pretty while I had been born ugly. She had been loved…I had not.”
Tears pricked the Countess’s eyes when she looked beseechingly at Moriarty, her voice was choked with pity.
“You cannot stay in there forever, Desi. I am going to open the door this side. You can slip the bolt on your side and come out when you are ready.”
The Countess freed the bolt and signalled to Moriarty and Fedir to stand ready to subdue the girl the moment the door swung back.
“No! No! Never!” Desi screamed shrilly. “I will die in here!”
They heard a hard grunting sound as if a huge weight was being lifted, and then a heavy scraping sound, followed by a massive clang. The Countess wondered what was happening. There was no way someone Desi’s size would fit through the lancet window and the stone wall was simply too thick to break. They waited for a short time but no further sound came. Moriarty and Fedir put their shoulders to the door and on the third attempt they burst through when the rusty bolt gave way.
In an instant they understood where the body of the Singing Wolf had been hidden. The iron grate that covered the chute was now resting on the floor of the garderobe. It had in fact never been fixed into the stone. Unlike the other grates, it had simply sat on a square stone lip. The south tower was so high off the ground and the steepness of the cliff so treacherous it was never likely to be breached. The iron grate had been put in place to stop someone falling to their death, it was never designed to stop anyone gaining ingress. Wrapped around one of the iron grids was a thin rusty chain, most likely stolen from the torture chamber, and at the other end of the chain was the body of the Singing Wolf. The chain had been concealed by extra moss and the dangling body had remained hidden because the chute angled away from the castle wall. The body gave off a vile stench as it was dragged up and they tried not to gag. Desi was nowhere to be seen but they knew if they searched the ground at the base of the cliff they would find her remains. She had hoisted up the iron grate using brute strength and jumped to her death.
Human tragedy has a way of leaving one mentally drained and emotionally numb. Countess Volodymyrovna, Moriarty and Fedir left the body of the Singing Wolf on the floor of the garderobe and removed themselves to their respective beds, utterly exhausted. There would be time tomorrow to deal with the aftermath.
The Countess asked Moriarty not to mention anything about the events of the previous evening during breakfast while Lalique was present. The inexplicable disappearance of Desi would be treated as yet another mystery for the duration of the meal. Straight after breakfast Xenia and Fedir took Lalique for a walk along the ramparts on the pretext of showing her the view from Chanteloup which she had never before seen from such dizzy heights. It gave the Countess the chance to summon the old couple into the great hall where the three men had gathered along with Dr Watson.
Moriarty knew what she would say, but even he would be surprised by her reasoning.
She dealt matter-of-factly with the events in the order that they happened: the disappearance of the Singing Wolf, murdered by Desi, the abandoned daughter whose life had been unbearably cruel. The mistaken belief of Velazquez who presumed one of the men had killed the Singing Wolf, and his morbid apprehension, fuelled by liquor, that he would eventually
be killed too and who thus ran to his death. The murder of Milo in the woodshed by Desi because he had heard someone on the spiral stairs and knew that Desi was not in her bed when she said she was, nor in the dairy room as Inez believed, and that it could only have been Desi in the south tower that fateful night. And finally the death of Herr von Gunn, who had spoken harshly to Desi once too often and thus signed his own death warrant.
The moral ring fence that stops most people from murdering those who are perhaps deserving of death had been breached the first night they arrived at Chanteloup, and once that barrier had been broken and the first murder had been committed the rest was almost inevitable.
The old couple returned to the kitchen weeping for their dead mistress. Their future was uncertain and the future of Lalique, whom they dearly loved, also hung in the balance. As soon as they departed, Inez entered as she had been instructed. She was wearing the black leather costume and it fit almost like a glove for she was of similar size and shape to the Singing Wolf, though not as tall.
“Gentlemen,” announced the Countess, “I give you Sarazan. Not Inez, of course, but the Singing Wolf as she would have appeared with her brigands. It is my belief there never was any Cathar loot to be found at Chanteloup. It was a convenient and romantic tale put about by the Singing Wolf to disguise the fact she earned her wealth through brigandage. The day we were ambushed we were a large party and her fellow outlaws did not immediately recognize that she was with our group. Once they realized their mistake they backed off.”
“Then why attack us at the gate?” expostulated Reichenbach.
“I think they were angry that several of their group had been shot after they backed off. They may have been wondering what was going on. They may have been trying to force a confrontation with their boss. There were only eight of them at the gate so they may even have splintered off and formed a rival group of outlaws.”
The men conferred amongst themselves and agreed that such a scenario was possible.
Inez returned to change back into her own clothes and the men went up to the south tower to inspect the garderobe and confirm that the dead body was indeed that of the Singing Wolf. A short time later they returned to the great hall.
“A sad business,” sighed Reichenbach, summing up what they were all feeling. “What about the girl? We need to make a decision before we leave, gentlemen.”
“I cannot accept responsibility,” said Prince Orczy flatly. “I have no formal residence and I am currently short of funds.”
“My situation is less than ideal,” admitted Moriarty. “My family seat is not fit for purpose, renovations could take another twelve months or more, and I am hardly ever home as it is. It is up to you to step up Reichenbach. Otherwise the girl stays here. We can all contribute to her up-bringing but that is about it.”
The Prussian ran his vivid blue eye over the great hall of Chanteloup, an ancient fortress steeped in grisly history and where so many recent murders had taken place. “The girl will go with me. I have an unmarried sister who lives permanently at my summer villa on Lac Lucerne. She can take charge of the girl’s up-bringing. I will recognize the girl as my ward. I will not ask for any contribution, gentlemen. If you choose to make an endowment, so be it. I will employ Inez as nursery governess for the time being and see how that works out.”
“The Singing Wolf may have left a Last Will and Testament,” suggested Dr Watson optimistically. “Lalique might be her only beneficiary.”
“Mmm,” murmured Reichenbach doubtfully, “it is my belief those who are young and fearless regard themselves as immortal. I anticipate there will be no Will.”
By midday the last of the rocks had been cleared and the village servants poured into Chanteloup. They were followed by a small regiment of French troops who had been alerted to the threat of brigands in the area by the Bogomil boys. The commander took charge of the dead bodies once he had been apprised of events. Straight after lunch the little party of travellers from Biarritz were free to leave, escorted by several armed soldiers as a matter of precaution. The old couple wept bitterly and Reichenbach promised to return with the girl for a visit next spring.
It was not until they were back on board the private train of the Singing Wolf that Dr Watson had a private moment with his counterpart. They closed the carriage door on the world and took a deep breath.
“I still don’t see how you deduced the Singing Wolf and Sarazan were one and the same,” he vexed.
“I deduced it as soon as I stopped trying to force the facts to fit my preconceived notions. The black leather costume was in her closet among her opera gowns yet I presumed it belonged to someone else. I presumed it belonged to her lover, ignoring the fact it would have fit her like a glove. I took for granted she gained her wealth from opera singing or some secret Cathar hoard for which there had never been an ounce of proof, only rumour and hearsay. I presumed Moriarty was searching for secret tunnels and treasure maps on the occasions when he was scouring floorboards, furniture, paintings and books, ignoring the possibility he might have been searching for something else – namely a stash of incriminating proofs used for blackmail.”
“Blackmail?”
“The Singing Wolf earned most of her income through blackmail. A chanteur is a singer but a maître chanteur is not a master singer, it is a blackmailer. The Singing Wolf was a maître chanteur femme. She was blackmailing the four men. The stories they told that first night made that clear. That’s why the men were reluctant to join in the story-telling.”
“I told a story too,” he reminded. “It had nothing to do with me personally.”
“Yes, but she knew their stories were true to them, they had no way of fudging. In the end they recounted each other’s stories to thwart her. They were asserting themselves against the power she held over them.”
“Asserting themselves?”
“Four strong-willed powerful men would baulk at being blackmailed by a woman and made to perform for her amusement. She was toying with them. Remember, the next day she was going to drop the bombshell of the illegitimate daughter. I think she was making sure they understood who held the reins of power. The Hotel Louve should have given me fair warning something was going on behind the scenes. It was isolated and preferred male guests, very few women stayed there. It employed an exceedingly handsome homosexual ex-toreador and a beautiful flamenco dancer who entertained guests and serviced their rooms. When Inez told me she and Velazquez were employed to extract information from guests which could then be used for blackmail I wasn’t really surprised. They were being blackmailed too. They too had something in their past that they did not wish anyone to know. Velazquez had killed his best friend in the bull-run in Pamplona and Inez had given birth to a baby girl whilst unmarried. The Singing Wolf seemed to pick up employees who had something to hide. Milo had killed a man in Sicily. When Desi came begging for work the Singing Wolf must have thought to herself that the girl would have a secret or two that she would not want the world to know. That presentiment was a savage piece of irony that led to her own death at the hands of her own daughter.”
“Hang on! If the four men were being blackmailed and recounting each other’s stories that means they were, er, are actually murderers!”
“Yes, exactly, they came every year to the Hotel Louve out of season not to enjoy the brisk sea air of Biarritz but to pay chantage. They have been coming for seven years. They must have come to know each other well, recognized in each other a fellow victim, and eventually learned each other’s stories. If the Singing Wolf had discovered something about us we would have returned each year to pay up too. Inez would have gone to your bed and Velazquez to mine.”
“That’s outrageous!”
“Remember how smitten you were by Inez that first night at dinner? You were being set up from the very start. She would have flirted with you in your room, demonstrated some flamenco, and voila, who’s to say what might have happened thereafter.”
He turned brick red and deci
ded to backtrack. “Er, yes, but, well, how do you know the men’s stories weren’t their own?”
“The Princess Roskovsky had already recounted to me a story about Prince Orczy and a duel he had fought. Yet the story about a duel was told by Herr von Gunn, not the Prince. If that story was told by the wrong person then it stood to reason that the other stories had been too. Baron Reichenbach owns a summer villa on Lac Lucerne yet a story about two boys in a boat on a lake was told not by him but by Prince Orczy. Moriarty told a story about a political revolutionary and some homemade bombs. It could only have been Herr von Gunn he was referring to. And finally the story about the poor boy who killed his drunken father by altering the height of one step was told by Baron Reichenbach.”
“That boy was MMMoriarty!”
“Yes,” she confirmed.
“The men are all cold-blooded killers!”
“Hush! Keep your voice down!” She flicked a telling glance at the carriage door.
Dr Watson lowered his tone, though moral indignation clung to every grating syllable. “They will never be brought to justice, you realize that?”
“Yes, the crimes were committed long ago. The chance for justice died with the Singing Wolf. Incriminating papers may come to light but I doubt it. I don’t think the Singing Wolf kept written proof. The men searched in vain when they ransacked their own rooms. I think she kept it all up here.” The Countess tapped the side of her head.
The doctor suddenly remembered the role of the flamenco dancer. “What about Inez? Her life is in mortal danger if she goes off with Reichenbach!”
“No, she told me it was the Singing Wolf who slept with the four men. Inez would be aware of some sort of blackmail but she would not know the details.”
He slapped the side of his head. “What about the girl? We cannot leave her in the hands of murderers!”
“What is the alternative? We leave her at Chanteloup? One of those men is her father. Children love their parents and wish to be with them regardless of their murky past. It takes a lot to kill unconditional love. I believe it is the best outcome for Lalique to be with one of the men and Baron Reichenbach seems best fitted to provide for her up-bringing. I intend visiting Reichenbach Falls next year. If you are free at the time you might wish to accompany me. We can look in on the girl and see how she is faring. You mentioned the Baron invited you to stay at his villa on Lac Lucerne. We can kill two birds with one stone.” She saw a pained look pass over him and realized her poor choice of phrase. “I’m sorry. I realize the Falls must conjure painful…”