The Curse Of The Diogenes Club (29 page)

She told him what Colonel
Moriarty said about the
effect
rather than merely the death
of Mycroft and the parallels to Diogenes the Cynic, expecting him
to tut-tut dismissively, but he murmured, “I wondered when someone
would notice.”

She told him about the furtive
behaviour of Major Nash and the Matryoshka doll in Mycroft’s
drawer. “Do you think the ADC is trying to implicate Mycroft in the
death of the princess?”

“I would reply in the
affirmative but Mycroft is hiding something. He is keeping
something from us. He may already suspect his ADC of treason and be
playing a game of double bluff. Hmm, I would dearly love to see
that Russian doll. Is my brother up yet? Is anything happening this
morning?”

“He’s still sleeping. There
will be a game of tennis after breakfast.”

“There’s no tennis court – I
have explored the grounds. Do you mean croquet?”

“There’s a Tudor tennis court
on the top floor. Mycroft’s not playing but he may come to
watch.”

“Ah, good, good, a good time to
check his room. Leave your door open, and window too, in the event
I need to make a quick exit. There’s a drain pipe which may come in
handy. Did anything out of the ordinary happen last night?”

“Not really. I slept like a log
after that astute comment from Colonel Moriarty. Fedir and Xenia
kept watch. They are now sleeping soundly in my boudoir and
dressing room; best to avoid those rooms when you break in. Xenia
said Miss Blague went to Major Nash’s room in the night. She’s
still there. Prince Sergei went to Mrs Klein’s room. He stayed for
over an hour. Colonel Moriarty didn’t leave his room all night.
Neither did Damery or Blague. Miss de Merville checked on her
father twice during the night –”

“Wait! Why did she do
that?”

“He drank too much whiskey
yesterday and fell ill. He’s been having nightmares since the bombs
went off. She’s worried about him.”

“Ah, yes, proceed.”

“That’s it really.”

“What about Major Nash?”

“I presume he was with Miss
Blague.”

“Never presume anything.” He
looked past her shoulder. “Ah, here comes Watson. Anything to
report, old friend?”

“Not really. I fell asleep soon
after midnight. I knew Xenia and Fedir were keeping watch inside,
and you and Mr Dixie were doing the same outside, so I didn’t think
there was any need for me to be up too. Something woke me around
five o’clock this morning. I had a quick peek out my bedroom door
and saw Major Nash coming out of Mrs Klein’s bedroom. That’s about
it.”

The Countess reeled back. “Are
you sure?”

“Quite. The odd thing is, up
until last night I could have sworn he’d been giving her the cold
shoulder, but after you went to bed early, and Miss de Merville and
Miss Blague followed, he started paying the Spanish donna a lot of
attention. Prince Sergei was livid with jealousy but Major Nash
must be one of the handsomest men in England; impossible for the
ladies to resist when he turns on the charm, I’d say.”

The Countess felt herself go
hot and cold then hot again. “But Miss Blague was in his room all
night and is still there by all accounts.”

“Well, that just proves my
point. The major must have gone from the American to the Spaniard
and back to the American. I wonder if he’ll still have the stamina
for tennis. Lucky you’re no longer partnering him. I think Miss de
Merville and I stand a good chance of winning. She plays lawn
tennis regularly and I don’t wish to blow my own trumpet but I was
a championship player in my schooldays before rugby won out.”

Sherlock slapped his friend
heartily on the back. “I wish I could come to cheer you on, Watson,
but if your tennis is half as good as your rugby you have the prize
in the bag!” He turned to his daughter. “Who are you
partnering?”

“Colonel Moriarty.”

“Hmm, if he can keep his Irish
temper in check you might provide some decent competition for
Watson and co.”

It was too early for breakfast
so she decided to make a quick promenade around the house to cool
her heels. She pulled her fur-trimmed dolman coat closer and
reached the corner of the stable-yard where she bumped into Mr
Dixie loitering by the carriage house. He jumped with fright when
she came up behind him.

“Shhh,” he warned, gesturing
for her to double back to the stable where they joined Sherlock and
Dr Watson, still in conversation.

“What is it, Mr Dixie?” she
prompted. “What were you looking at?”

He lowered his deep southern
drawl to an ominous drone. “I reckon the men who came on the back
of the last carriage is from Barney’s gang. They is dressed
different, wif false beards and curly wigs, but I reckon they is
Larry the Lurker and Thumper.”

Sherlock had been adjusting the
time on the clock that sat snugly on his mechanical arm but
straightened up at the mention of the names. “Do you mean the
Barney Stockdale gang?”

“Yes, Masser Holmes, that’s
what I mean.”

Sherlock decided to translate
for the benefit of the others. “Mr Dixie thinks the two liveried
footmen who arrived yesterday on the back of the carriage belonging
to Mrs Klein may be members of the criminal fraternity led by
Barney Stockdale, a nasty bunch of thugs for hire who break bones,
dislocate limbs, intimidate witnesses and inflict punishment for a
price.”

Dr Watson felt simultaneously
alarmed and unconvinced. “You’re not suggesting Mrs Klein knowingly
hired two criminals? No, no, the men must have left the gang and
gained employment as body-guards. Mrs Klein is a rich woman. She
has need of protection. Let’s not forget she owns the Turkish
Baths. I heard there was a brawl there the other day. Two men were
evicted. It is perfectly understandable for a wealthy businesswoman
to employ strong-arm men, especially when travelling long distances
in the countryside.”

Sherlock continued to play
around with the clock hands. “Mrs Klein is a subtle woman. I doubt
she would hire two thugs to beat Mycroft to a pulp. Nevertheless,
we will need to keep an eye on them. Best if I handle it. Best for
you to stay out of sight, Mr Dixie. Best for us to disperse now.
The household is stirring. The game’s afoot.”

Isadora Klein had receded into
the background, not a natural position for a celebrated beauty who
courted controversy. It was time to shine a spotlight on the dark
queen.

Countess Volodymyrovna
instructed Xenia to search Mrs Klein’s bedroom during the tennis
game. Likewise, Fedir would search Prince Sergei’s room. There was
something about the dalliance between the Conquistador queen and
the Russian prince that hinted at intimacy beyond the usual animal
attraction.

She needed to speak to Damery
again about what he saw in the carriage park now that she knew Mrs
Klein employed two liveried footmen of dubious repute. But it would
be impossible to speak frankly in the breakfast room so she knocked
on his door, though it was unprecedented for a woman to enter a
gentleman’s bedroom so early in the day. He was wearing a paisley
silk dressing gown over paisley silk pyjamas. A valet was preparing
his clothes, laying them out on the bed. She apologized for the
intrusion and he waved away the servant, telling him to return in
fifteen minutes.

“I gather you wish to speak
privately?” he said diplomatically, indicating a comfortable chair
by the fire.

“Yes, I was wondering, since
you were possibly the last person to leave the carriage park on the
night of the ball, if you saw when Mrs Klein returned to her
brougham?”

He concentrated on lighting a
cigarette, which she declined, so he smoked it himself.

“Yes, I did.”

“Was a man waiting for her
inside her carriage?”

Damery appeared amused.
“No.”

The Countess felt momentarily
confused because she expected the answer to be ‘yes’. “Are you
sure?’ she pressed.

“Quite sure,” he said silkily.
“I don’t think it will hurt her reputation any but she didn’t get
into her own carriage right away.”

Confusion cleared in an
instant. “Oh, I see, she got into the carriage of Prince
Sergei.”

“Yes.”

“That’s why his curtains were
drawn the second time.”

“Second time?”

“Never mind. There was a man
seen in her carriage much earlier. Did you see when he left? Did
you see where he went?”

“There was man in her carriage,
as you say, earlier on, around the time of the fireworks, but her
burly footmen soon sorted him out. I didn’t see what happened to
him.”

“After she finished in Prince
Sergei’s carriage did she return to the pavilion?”

“No, she hopped into her own
brougham, but I think her coachman was drunk. He made a huge
circuit of the park, pausing every now and again as if he was lost
or confused. She got out to reprimand him which I thought was most
unfair considering the bombs must have upset a lot of people. The
poor chap made another circuit then finally found the gates and
left.”

“Prince Sergei was still
there?”

“No, he went straight away, as
soon as she hopped out.”

“Thank you, Sir Damery, you’ve
been very helpful.”

Major Nash was waiting for her
in her bedroom. “You’ve been busy this morning. I tried to track
you down several times. How did you sleep?”

“Better than you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You were busy last night –
Miss Blague
and
Isadora Klein.”

“Oh,” he said before recovering
his equanimity. “You sound jealous.”

“I hope you didn’t catch a
disease,” she parried facetiously, “from the woman you love to
hate,” she added caustically to cover the fact she
was
jealous. Why, oh, why, Isadora Klein? If it had been Violet de
Merville she would have been happy for him.

“What can I say? I’m a sucker
for punishment. I like blondes and sadists.”

“Then you’re in for a treat.
Colonel Moriarty and I will show no mercy. We will wipe the court
with you and Miss Mona Blague.”

Unconcerned, he began striding
to the door. “I don’t doubt it.”

“What?”

“Miss Blague is just waking up
now. I had a feeling she might storm my room last night so I
prepared some defences. I plied her with French champagne. She
passed out and slept all night. Her hymen is still intact but her
head exploded just after midnight. I fear our game will
suffer.”

The Countess tried not to
smile. Mona Blague was all her fault and the outcome could have
been far worse in the hands of a man less scrupulous. “And Isadora
Klein?”

“Is none of your concern.”

Everyone gathered on the
‘tennys-play’ at eleven o’clock. The rules were simplified in the
interests of those not familiar with the game. Sir Damery and Mr
Blague agreed to jointly referee. Mycroft said he had a few things
to take care of and would join them later. Miss Blague, determined
not to disappoint her partner any more than she did last night by
imbibing too much champagne and passing out, soldiered on
magnificently.

Nevertheless, Major Nash and
Miss Blague were the first to be eliminated. They were followed
quickly by Prince Sergei and Mrs Klein. The final match was a hard
fought duel but Miss de Merville was an exemplary player and Dr
Watson’s service was second to none.

Hearty congratulations were
offered to the winners and everyone was enjoying a round of
thirst-quenching drinks when the Countess noticed Major Nash and
Mrs Klein were absent. The thought that they might be having
another assignation did not worry her as much as the thought that
if they went to Mrs Klein’s bedroom they might walk in on
Xenia.

Busy concentrating on the game,
the Countess had failed to notice when the pair slipped out. She
was halfway down the main stairs leading to the great hall when a
small but loud explosion stopped her in her tracks. The noise came
from the vicinity of the front porch.

Panic-stricken shouting ensued.
It echoed through the big house, shattering the normal tranquillity
where the only sound to disturb the peace and quiet – now the
tennis game was over - was the tick-tock of the antique clocks.
Screams were suddenly punctuated by monstrous growls – “Get back!
Get back! Look out!” - and baffled rejoinders from upstairs – “What
the hell is going on? What on earth was that? Good God! I’ve never
heard anything like it!”

Colonel Moriarty hurtling
pell-mell, passed her on the stairs, revolver poised to blast
whatever it was that was on the porch. He’d heard that exploding
noise before and knew exactly what it was. An adrenaline rush
propelled her forward and she was right behind him when he threw
open the front door and pumped three bullets into a massive beast
that made the ghastly, luminous-jawed, Baskerville hound look like
a playful puppy.

Rabid white foam bubbling
around the dog’s muzzle explained the frenzied state the beast was
in. White froth coated Sherlock’s limp mechanical arm as he
supported it using his right hand; sharp canines had to be prized
off his special boot after the dog collapsed on its side and
whimpered for the last time.

Mycroft was lying on the
ground, arm raised as if to protect himself though the beast was
now dead. The elder sibling’s brain hadn’t caught up with reality
and it showed in every fibre of his being – the terror-stricken
stare, the desperate panting, the dry mouth and the bloodless
pallor. Only slowly did it dawn on him that he had survived a
second deadly dog attack and that once again he had the colonel to
thank, though this time huge credit had to go to the younger Holmes
as well.

The arrival of the other
house-guests, breathless and confused, forestalled any discussion
about what had really taken place.