by Anna Lord
“No, no, it’s all right. I was thinking of going back to the Falls at some future time. I would welcome your company.”
They both turned to look out of the train window as it skirted the foothill of the Pyrenees and while Dr Watson recounted the tragic myth of Pyrene he took out his silver cigarette case and extracted a Bradley. “Shall I light one for you?”
She shook her head and proceeded to light one of her own cigarettes. Bradleys were fine occasionally but she preferred her own gold-tipped foreign cigarettes. They were darker, slimmer and more sophisticated. It was like the difference between a stodgy bread and butter pudding and a chocolate soufflé. The carriage soon filled with aromatic wisps of blue smoke. Dr Watson finished his cigarette and stood up to open the window an inch or two to vent the foreign fumes. He found the pungent aroma of the exotic gaspers overpowering. It was like the difference between a pot of freshly brewed tea and a pot of burnt hot chocolate. It wouldn’t surprise him if the vile tobacco had been deliberately tainted with opium, though it didn’t seem to cloud her judgement, perhaps it even enhanced it.
“What made you suspect Desi?”
She butted her cigarette in the ashtray before tossing it out of the window and slamming it shut to keep out the cold west wind.
“It wasn’t a conscious realisation. I was dozing off when it suddenly struck me. Again, it was only when my preconceived notions fell away that I realized Desi fit all the facts. I presumed that what Velazquez heard that first night was the Singing Wolf making love to a man - as did he - but the heavy breathing and panting could have been the sound of someone being throttled to death. Ecstasy and the throes of death are surprisingly similar. Strangulation takes brute strength so that meant it had to be someone strong. I thought the clanging sound Velazquez described was the bucket in the well room but it was the iron grate in the garderobe. Later, I presumed it was Lalique who out of childish spite against a neglectful mother slashed the red and gold dress the Singing Wolf wore when she sang the role of Desdemona, but Desi was short for Desdemona and she was the right age for being conceived at the same time as the opera was being performed, fifteen years ago, and one of the men mentioned that Iago was actually black, meaning he was Negro. It is highly likely he fathered Desi. The Singing Wolf was just beginning her career so it made sense that she did not wish to be encumbered with a child, especially a black child that everyone would guess belonged to the Black Baritone. Desi had been ill-treated all her life. She harboured great animosity toward the mother who had abandoned her to a life of suffering. Driven by the sheer rage that still burned within her even after she had killed her own mother, she slashed the dress. It is easy for us to tut-tut but who knows what any of us is capable of under such circumstances. We like to tell ourselves we are more moral, more rational, more sanguine, but I suspect a lifetime of lovelessness, humiliation and abuse can turn the mildest creature into a monster.
She was driven to killing Milo even though she liked him. He was her only friend but it was a matter of survival. He knew she wasn’t where she said she was the night the Singing Wolf was killed. She was strong enough to remove the log that held the wood stack back and quick enough to leap out of the way before the falling wood crushed her leg. She was adept with a knife, having worked in a circus. She was usually in the scullery, nearby to the woodshed. Once she had killed her mother it was easier for her to kill again.
It was the same with Herr von Gunn. She murdered him because he had spoken harshly to her more than once. I think she’d finally had enough of being insulted and belittled. Likewise, his murderer had to be someone who could throw a knife and who was physically strong. She fit the bill both times.
Inez told me Desi was lying about Velazquez ever visiting her bed. He preferred men. He was disgusted by Desi. If he went to Inez’ room it was probably to converse in private. They were both Spanish and had much in common regarding their roles at the Hotel Louve. They probably viewed each other as confidantes, more like brother and sister, never as lovers.
After those things fell into place it suddenly occurred to me that Lalique’s life might be in danger. If Desi had killed three times there was nothing stopping her killing a fourth time. She would have felt as much hatred for the pretty girl as for the selfish mother who had disowned her. To suddenly discover she had a beautiful little half-sister who had been loved and cossetted must have come as a disturbing shock. I knew she would have to strike that night because the next day she would be gone from Chanteloup and the chance would be forever lost. I arranged for Fedir to take Xenia’s place in the south tower, for Lalique to transfer to my bed, and for Moriarty to act as back-up should Desi prove too strong to overpower. And before you rebuke me, I decided not to wake you because I was aware you had slept badly the night before and you were not feeling your best.”
Wincing inwardly, he pressed his lips together and didn’t reply though he knew what she said made sense. His feelings were nevertheless hurt. Why Moriarty? Why not Reichenbach? But he knew the answer. She was attracted to the Irishman despite his family’s criminality. He consoled himself with the fact she had not slept with the Fenian. It was small consolation but it was something. Guilt caused another inward wince and a wrench of shame. Lulled by the gentle rocking motion of the train he closed his eyes and pressed his head into the crook of the padded headrest. She left him to catch up on some sleep.
In the saloon car Prince Orczy was teaching Lalique how to shuffle cards. Baron Reichenbach was dozing in an armchair. Moriarty was smoking a cigarette and leaning his hips on the rail of the rear balcony. Behind him the French countryside was fading into the distance. They would soon arrive in Biarritz and look back on the last few days as if remembering an allegorical dream.
“I haven’t thanked you for stepping up when I asked for your help.”
He gave a careless shrug and tossed his spent cigarette onto the receding train tracks. “I haven’t figured out how you knew it was Desi.”
“I suppose Dr Watson’s sleuthing skills must have rubbed off on me,” she returned blithely.
“Assuming he had any to begin with,” he dismissed with a sarcastic rejoinder. “It is my impression his companion in crime fighting, Mr Holmes, was the brains and brawn. I don’t know what part Dr Watson ever played, unless it was as general dogsbody.”
“That is a rather harsh assessment.”
“Harsh but true.”
“Were you acquainted with Mr Holmes through your brother?” she tested.
“No, I was quite a few years younger than my brother. We did not move in the same circles. It is just an impression I formed from passing conversation while I was growing up.”
“In that case, it is time to reassess your opinion. Dr Watson has recently successfully solved the Baskerville murders, the Lammermoor murders, the penny dreadful murders in York, and the recent murder of a clairvoyant – all without the assistance of Mr Holmes.”
He seemed to find something interesting in that run of information. “Were you travelling with him during the solving of those cases?”
“Yes, I was fortunate enough to witness him in action.”
Moriarty laughed crudely. “Perhaps my brother targeted the wrong sleuth!”
That derisory remark was made entirely in jest but the Countess felt a cold chill.
“A pointless death,” she mused, suppressing a repellent shiver.
“Two pointless deaths,” he corrected blandly. “But since all life is pointless - death is merely the end of pointlessness.”
“A nihilist?”
“A realist,” he corrected.
“Cynic or Stoic?”
“Yes to both.”
“You should consider joining the Diogenes Club. I hear they are like-minded in their philosophy.”
“I have been put up for membership three times and thrice rejected.”
“Take heart,” she parried sardonically, “they will not allow me to join either.”
He laughed richly and cuppe
d the back of her head.
“Take care,” she warned when her heart started thumping and she fought against aiming a nervous backward glance to see who might be watching, praying that Dr Watson was still sleeping soundly where she had left him, “we have an audience in the saloon car.”
“Reichenbach is snoring and Orczy is facing the other way.”
“And Lalique?”
“The girl is a natural born coquette, she will get an early lesson in the wicked ways of unscrupulous men.”
“Are you admitting to being unscrupulous?”
The kiss that followed said it all.
When he broke off the passionate assault he braced for the slap that never came.
“You didn’t slap me,” he mocked with a self-deprecating yet triumphant smile. “Does that mean you enjoyed it this time round?”
“What makes you think I didn’t enjoy the previous times? Perhaps I am as unscrupulous as you.”
With his heart pounding and his belly on fire, he was holding onto himself as tightly as it was possible for a man to do who was about to self-combust with lust. “We would make a brilliant partnership – you and I – your money and brains; my strength and cunning.”
“I’m not after a husband,” she reminded with feminine froideur. “The role of obedient wife does not suit me.”
“How does disobedient mistress suit?”
The locomotive lurched suddenly, threatening to unbalance her. She gripped the handrail for support, ignoring his proffered arm. “It has certain possibilities. I will let you know if I ever decide to take you up on the offer, Colonel Moriarty.”