The Curse Of The Diogenes Club (24 page)

Major Nash was livid. He
blasphemed before storming off outside for a few deep breaths of
frigid air that might help restore his sanity. He lit a cigarette
and puffed furiously as he paced the knot garden, counting off the
angry strides to stop from cursing her name. She was turning all
his carefully laid plans on their head.

And he was jealous too. He
didn’t mind admitting it. But slow and steady won the race. Jim’s
double life exhausted people. His constant lying eventually grew
tiresome. She would soon see through him. In the end she would
choose a man who would honour, cherish and protect her. A man who
would love her with every breath of his body. A man who would be a
decent father to her children. A man who could provide the sort of
life every woman dreamed of.

When a magnificent red carriage
with a royal Russian emblem on the door rolled beneath the arch of
the gatehouse, he stepped back quickly behind a tall topiary and
watched as Isadora Klein emerged like a tsarina, bolstering her
cannons and smoothing back her luxurious black mane.

Prince Sergei emerged a moment
later from the opposite side of the carriage, straightening his
waistcoat and smoothing back his rich sweep of silver hair.

That explained the late
arrival. There had been no hurry to rush the journey.

A few moments later Mrs Klein’s
lacquered carriage arrived with her luggage on it so that it
appeared as if they had travelled in two carriages instead of
one.

Colonel Moriarty waited until
the Countess paused at the bedroom door. He thanked her courteously
as he flung it open and hauled her inside like a piece of baggage,
checking to make sure no one was watching, before closing the door
behind himself. The action had been fluid, bold, reckless, and
completely in character.

“Do you and Nash have an
understanding?” he said, standing in front of the door should she
decide to leave before he had received a satisfactory reply.

Feigning calm, she strolled to
the window to catch her breath; her heart always beat a little
faster in his presence. “I think this view of the garden is better
than the stable-yard.”

Like most men he had a one
track mind and repeated the question a little more volubly. “Do you
and Nash have an understanding?”

She turned her head and looked
him in the eye because looking at him always thrilled her, though
he was not the handsomest man she’d ever met, not by a long shot.
But what he lacked in physical attractiveness he made up in sheer
physicality; there radiated off him an aura of virility that
throbbed and burned and warned her not to get too close.

“Major Nash and I have no
understanding whatsoever, neither the sort you are alluding to, nor
any other. The man is behaving most peculiarly. If I didn’t know
better I’d say he is not serious about protecting Mycroft.” She
waited to see what he would make of that confession.

His poker face ran a gamut of
emotions but it was fear that sharpened his features as he stepped
away from the door. “Lower your voice. What makes you say
that?”

“Several things which I don’t
have time to go into right now (and don’t wish to share with you
because I don’t know if I can trust you either) because I need to
change for lunch. But I am starting to suspect our host might have
designs on being the next primus baro.”

His stomach did a sickly
somersault and he for once he was glad it was empty. Was he being
played for a sucker by Nash? Was Nash playing a game of double
bluff? Was Nash setting up an Irishman to take the blame for
Mycroft’s assassination?

Moriarty caught her arm as she
swept past him; there was a discordant note of desperation in the
Irish lilt. “I presume you have good reason for saying that?”

“Not really, it’s more of a
feeling. You better
not
be here on
business
,” she
flared, feeling the heat from his hand like a flame from a
candle.

“I’m not here to assassinate
him, if that’s what you mean. If I had a contract Mycroft wouldn’t
have stepped foot off the milk train.”

“How did you know he came on
the milk train?”

Bang! Bang! He’s just shot
himself in the foot! His hand fell limply away. “None of your
business.”

“If anything bad happens to
Mycroft and I find out you had something to do with it I won’t
rest. There won’t be anywhere for you to hide. I will hunt you
down.”

He met her steely gaze. “You
care for him that much?”

“More than you can
imagine.”

“I can imagine a lot.”

“Then start imagining how
you’re going to keep him alive.”

His next words caught her
before she reached the door. “Happy birthday, Varvara – this is for
you.”

She whirled round, expecting to
find herself in his arms and his lips stealing a punishing kiss but
instead she was staring at something weirdly mottled with a white
tassel hanging on the end of it. “What is it?”

He looked slightly hurt. “A
book mark made of birch bark.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” She could
see he had carefully cut little love hearts into soft white flesh
of the sacred tree. “I will treasure it,” she said sincerely,
“thank you.”

A deerstalker hat awaited the
Countess on her bed when she returned to her bedroom to change into
a cream lace afternoon gown that finished with a slight train that
swept the floor in her wake. The gift came with a card signed SH.
She smiled and put it on, hoping for inspiration, as she pondered
who was lying. Was it Major Nash or Colonel Moriarty?

Or were they conspiring
together?

If Nash was elected primus baro
he could conceivably approve Moriarty’s entry into the Diogenes
Club. It would be a huge step up for two penniless sons from fallen
families. What a
coup de grace
for two young men to control
all that went on behind the scenes of government: to decide the
Irish Guards question, to decide on membership of the most
exclusive club in London, to control the world’s bank. Ambition,
indeed!

Philip and Clement. King and
Pope. They could easily have set the bombs. They were everywhere
that night. Including in the dome room and then duelling down by
the lake at just the right time. They could have strangled the
studio photographer, then strangled the other one too, hidden him
in the pump house and then dumped his body the following night when
they met in the wood. And they might have broken into the house in
Cheyne Walk to make sure no evidence pointed to them. And the
incident with the dog – Nash knew where Mycroft was going and
Moriarty happened along at just the right time. Coincidence?
Perhaps they were making sure that when Mycroft was actually
assassinated they were not considered as suspects. Moriarty had
already saved his life! And Nash was the loyal ADC!

What about Princess Paraskovia?
Could they be linked to the death of princess too? It was not as
preposterous as it sounded. They had both been in love with Isadora
Klein, and both had been rejected by her. Did they make a habit of
sleeping with the same woman?

No, no, no, the theory was too
pat, too neat, too obvious.

Lunch passed pleasantly and no
one raised the topic of the bombs.

After lunch Dr Watson gave the
Countess a hand-written copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles which
he hoped one day to publish. The case had taken place in 1889 and
the story had been serialized and made famous, but the doctor had
high hopes of one day turning it into a proper novel.

“Returning to Baskerville with
you,” he said; eyes slightly misty, “was the start of our
friendship and I will always remember our time there together as
something special. Happy birthday, dear lady.”

Rain set in and continued all
afternoon. Guests moved seamlessly from the whist table to the
seating around the fireplace in the great hall to the billiards
room then back again. A jolly game of charades was organized by
Miss Blague and even Mycroft joined in. Afternoon tea was served
and then guests began to drift off. Some went to have a nap, some
went to the gun room with their host to look at the new Purdeys;
others decided to curl up with a book.

Now that everyone had gone
their separate ways it was the perfect time to seek answers to
questions such as: who left the dome room last, where did Prince
Sergei go after he left the lake, where did Mrs Klein go after
organizing the bucket brigade…But first, a visit to the oratory to
check for cufflinks.

It was clear Major Nash did not
come often to Longchamps. He brought what he needed with him from
London and stored very little in his tiny cramped bedroom. In the
top drawer of a tallboy sat a box made of mother-of-pearl inlay,
the sort of thing tourists buy in the souks in Egypt and Morocco.
It housed a few odd buttons, some jet tie pins and a couple of
cheap cufflinks.

“Were you looking for me?”

Major Nash’s voice ambushed her
at the base of the stairs in the long gallery. He must have heard
her ferreting about in his room and simply waited for her to emerge
from behind the tapestry.

“No,” she said with perfect
candour, “I was searching for a cufflink.”

Truth was always unnerving and
it amused her to see sure-footed men thrown off-balance by it.

“A cufflink?”

“A cufflink was found in the
princess’s suite at Clarges Hotel.”

“Just one cufflink?”

“Yes.”

“And you thought I might have
the matching pair?”

“Yes.”

He aimed a nervous glance back
over his shoulder; the long gallery was like an echo chamber. “We
can’t talk here. Go back up the stairs.”

Even in the oratory he was not
satisfied they would not be overheard.

“Keep going up,” he directed,
indicating the spiral stairs that went up to the tennis-play; a
huge indoor Tudor tennis court with penthouses along one wall for
waiting players and two viewing decks at either end for spectators.
“You suspect me of killing Princess Paraskovia?”

She rarely replied to the
obvious and she needed to keep the focus on him, not switch it to
herself. “Did she give you a nesting doll?”

“You’re asking me if I was one
of her lovers?”

“Were you?”

“She didn’t give me a nesting
doll.”

“You didn’t answer my
question.”

“You didn’t answer mine.”

She conceded the point and
decided there was nothing for it but to unnerve him further. “Did
you invite Colonel Moriarty here to assassinate Mycroft?”

He reacted as if he’d been
slapped but recovery was swift. “No.”

“Did you invite Colonel
Moriarty here to assassinate someone else?”

“I’m not in the habit of
assassinating houseguests. If I wanted to assassinate someone I’d
do it myself. You know about his double life?”

She snatched up a tennis
racquet and swished the air. “Yes but I’d like to know more about
yours.”

“I don’t have a double
life.”

“Everyone does. Let’s play a
game. What are the rules?”

He found a second racquet and
picked up something small that was a cross between a ball and a
shuttlecock. “Let’s keep it simple. No hitting into the penthouses
or above the 18 foot line on the wall. Hitting the roof is
permitted. Points are scored by the distance from the net the
unreturned ball travels. You serve first.”

He had the advantage of
trousers and being born a man. He was stronger, fitter and
physically co-ordinated. The only way she was going to win was if
he threw a game. She was glad he didn’t.

“Game, set, match,” she
conceded graciously; breasts rising and falling in an effort to
reign in her breath, “you win.”

“If only it were that easy.”
His smile was a masterstroke that mingled love and desire and
melted her defences, and when he used a finger to smooth back a
loose curl of her up-pinned hair she was almost ready to concede
defeat all over again and melt into his arms, but his restraint was
as masterful as his game, and his voice a husky purr. “We seem to
be on opposing sides. I don’t know how it happened. Mycroft’s
safety is my only concern. Try not to get in my way. I know what
I’m doing.”

“Good for you, Major Nash,
because I have no idea what I’m doing but I intend to keep on doing
it until I find the person who is trying to kill Mycroft. Try to
stay out of
my
way.”

Sir James Damery was playing a
game of Solitaire where the card table had been set up near the
drinks trolley in the great hall. There was no one within earshot
so she decided to start with him. “May I join you?”

Ever the diplomat, he stood up
and pulled out a chair for her. “Certainly, Countess, I presume you
have some questions about the night of the ball. That’s why we’re
here, is it not?”

She was relieved he wasn’t
going to be obstreperous. “Who was the last person to leave the
room with the hookahs when you went out for the duel?”

“It was I. Major Nash went
first. Colonel Moriarty followed. I closed the door.”

“Later in the night, you helped
to supervise the departure of the carriages. What do you recall
happening in the carriage park?”

“Nothing at all, it was all
quite orderly, oh, apart from a woman in a purple and gold dress
who appeared to be frantically searching for someone. She was
almost hit by one of the carriages.”

“Whose carriage?”

“It was Mr Blague’s. The horses
were skittish and the driver seemed reckless.”

“Was there anything else you
remember happening in the carriage park?”

“Well, it was a busy place,
there was a lot happening, but not in the sense of anything
unusual. After the Prince Regent left, most of the carriages did
the same.”

“Which ones stayed till
last?”