The Curse Of The Diogenes Club (30 page)

Sherlock slinked back to the
stable before the Irishman recognized him, leaving Colonel Moriarty
and the Countess to help Mycroft to his feet. He was still badly
shaken and unable to field the barrage of questions: What happened?
Where did the dog come from? What’s all that white froth?

He promised to explain
everything over lunch in one hour.

Major Nash arrived last of all,
shirt rumpled and hair mussed. He looked flushed and angry as he
exchanged fleeting eye-contact with the colonel, grabbed hold of
Mycroft’s elbow and ushered him inside.

“I’m all right, Nash,” grumbled
the elder. “Let go my arm. I can walk. I’m not an invalid. No harm
done.”

The men headed straight for the
drinks trolley while the ladies went to have a sponge bath and
change out of their perspiration-soaked sporting ensembles. After a
stiff brandy or two, Mycroft found the strength to mount the stairs
without his jelly legs turning to water.

Conspicuous by absence was Mrs
Klein. The only conclusion one could draw was that her state of
undress when the attack happened was even greater than the
major’s.

The Countess followed the
ladies up the main stairs then veered toward the back stairs and
hurried to the stable.

Perched on a hay bale, Sherlock
was inspecting the tooth marks in his badly mauled boot. “Lucky I
strapped all those leather bits around it, though the boot is
ruined. I have a spare at home but I didn’t think to pack it.
Still, it did the job admirably, especially the steel-capped
toe.”

His mechanical arm was much the
same. He had strapped it with some hardy leather from an old
saddle. The dog had shredded the tough hide and the mechanics were
ruined but his withered arm had managed to remain in one piece.

“But how did you know?” pressed
the Countess, awestruck by her father’s composure and prescience.
Everyone else, including her, was still shuddering and still
baffled.

“How did I know there would be
another dog attack?”

“Put simply, yes.”

“I thought long and hard about
that conversation we had this morning regarding
effect
. The
next attack, like the others, had to send a message to those who
understood about Diogenes - the philosopher and the club. I
actually expected an attack by some wild beast in accord with the
philosopher’s death-wish. I thought it might be a wolf or wild boar
or even some sort of jungle cat. Noblemen often keep wild animals
in a private zoo and there are plenty of travelling circuses. It
would not have been difficult to steal one of the poor beasts,
starve it, treat it cruelly, and wait for the right moment to
unleash it on the chosen victim.

“But the timing? How could
anyone time an attack to coincide with Mycroft stepping onto the
front porch?”

Sherlock paused momentarily
from unstrapping the foam-slobbered leather strips wrapped around
his arm, glanced up at his daughter, inviting her with his eyes to
answer her own query.

She took up the challenge.
“Hmm, whoever was behind the dog attack must have sent Mycroft a
note: Meet me on the front porch during the tennis game…I know who
the bomb man is…come alone…or some such thing. Mycroft is no
position to decline. He has no time to discuss it with his ADC. He
goes out to the porch and
voila
! The rabid dog comes
bounding around the corner. But the killer doesn’t take into
account the dithering stable-hand being on hand to leap into the
fray.” Smiling broadly, she shook her head with happy disbelief.
“That gimpy arm and gammy leg just saved your brother’s life.”

Sherlock chuckled. “If anyone
else had said that I might have taken offence but coming from you
it sounds like a compliment. Ah, here’s Watson, looking concerned
for my welfare. Did you hear what she said, old friend? Gimpy arm
and gammy leg!” he laughed uproariously.

Dr Watson laughed too, but it
was laughter spurred by delayed relief. He agreed the explanation
she proffered a second time for his benefit made good sense. “But
where was the dog kept?”

“The answer is obviously not
too far from here,” replied Sherlock. “Mr Dixie and I scoured the
outbuildings when we arrived and none was being used to house
anything but garden implements, broken furniture and farm
equipment, but there are numerous cottages on the estate. Not all
have been renovated. It would not have been difficult to kennel the
dog until required. A lackey could have brought the dog over,
muzzled until ready to unleash. I’d say the two dogs were infected
with rabies together. The breed is the same. They were both trained
to attack Mycroft. There may be others.”

The trio looked nervously over
their shoulders and froze at the sound of footsteps.

Mr Dixie had just completed an
exploration of the stable-yard. “All is quiet, Masser Holmes” he
reported, looking queerly at the limp arm. “Larry the Lurker and
Thumper is having a game of cards in back of the carriage house.
The ostler and the stable boys are seeing to the dead dog. Major
Nash told them to bury it behind the wall of the kitchen garden in
the apple orchard.”

Dr Watson nibbled his lip and
frowned. “I don’t wish to cast aspersions on our host, I cannot
fault him for hospitality and courtesy, but he disappeared halfway
through the final game of tennis.”

Plucking the shattered clock
out of his mechanical arm, which he had just spent considerable
time repairing; Sherlock looked up with an unhappy scowl. “You
think Major Nash may have given the signal for the dog to be
unleashed?”

“I don’t want to think anything
of the sort but…”

The Countess understood why Dr
Watson didn’t want to finish the sentence. She had had the same
misgivings concerning their handsome host; she could scarcely bring
herself to believe her suspicions let alone voice them. “Did you
notice when Mrs Klein left the tennys-play?”

“I didn’t notice that she
had.”

“She wasn’t on the porch
either. I think she and Major Nash were having another assignation.
He looked dishevelled when he appeared. They appear to be very
friendly all of a sudden. You don’t think…”

Sherlock finished the sentence
for her when she paused, clearly unwilling to accuse Mycroft’s ADC
of treachery. “…think the two of them are in it together?”

Dr Watson looked back over his
shoulder again and lowered his voice. “Major Nash certainly gets
around and he knows exactly where Mycroft is going to be at any
given time. And didn’t you say this weekend was his idea?”

“Yes,” confirmed the Countess
grimly.

“But what’s in it for him?”
pursued the doctor, shaking his head dourly.

The Countess explained what she
learned while butlering at the club. “Once Mycroft is out of the
way de Merville becomes the new primus baro by default; no one else
wants the job. I’d say it wouldn’t be long before the major was
part of the influential committee of six. This weekend could have
been designed to ingratiate him with de Merville, Damery and
Blague, all soon to become members of the club providing the new
constitution is adopted. As Mycroft’s ADC he must know everyone’s
secrets. That sort of information could bring him enormous clout.
In time he could bump off de Merville and be voted in as the new
primus baro.”

“But how would Mrs Klein help?”
asked the doctor.

“She holds sway over powerful
men. Think about the Turkish Baths,” she reminded. “The right men
backing the ADC might help him get on the committee sooner rather
than later. Plus she has the funds to bankroll any scheme that
needs implementing. Once he’s in power he could make financial
decisions that favour her. I’m starting to think his violent
dislike of Mrs Klein has been an act.”

She went on to explain about
the Matryoshka doll in Mycroft’s drawer. “Major Nash may have been
putting it there to implicate Mycroft in the death of the
princess.”

“But where would he get a
Matryoshka doll?” quizzed the doctor, sounding more and more
worried. “You said they were impossible to obtain.”

She heard a noise at the
entrance to the stable and paused before replying.

Sherlock heard it too. “Come
in, Colonel Moriarty.”

The Irishman didn’t look quite
so sheepish this time, though it was clear he had been listening
for the last few minutes. “I thought that might be you on the
porch, Mr Holmes. Keep going,” he invited, looking from one face to
another before settling on the female one. “I’d like to hear your
theory on Nash and the doll.”

“I think Major Nash was one of
the princess’s lovers.”

Moriarty gave a low phwoar of
male approval. “He certainly gets around.”

The Countess tried not to show
disapproval. “You refer to Isadora Klein?”

Moriarty nodded briskly. “I
think he lost the tennis game on purpose. He could have played
singles with one arm tied behind his back and still beaten all of
us put together. No offence Dr Watson but he’s a master at Tudor
tennis. He slipped out shortly after Mrs Klein disappeared and he
turned up on the porch looking like he’d been working up a sweat at
something other than a game you play with a racquet.”

Sherlock pulled on his jacket
to cover his damaged mechanical sleeve before it invited too much
unwanted attention. “Being together also provides the two of them
with an alibi for the dog incident.”

“Very convenient,” agreed the
colonel with a cynical smirk. “And I’d like to thrash out the whys
and wherefores but I came here in search of the doctor. General de
Merville has been found in the cellar. It looks like he dragged
himself out of bed and got stuck into the whiskey while we were at
tennis. He’s passed out cold and isn’t responding. Miss de Merville
is distressed and may need attending to as well.”

Dr Watson and the Countess
hurried back to the house.

Sherlock’s voice caught the
Irishman as he turned to follow. “Nice shooting, Colonel. Three
bullets in the skull of a mad dog during a frenzied attack
involving flailing limbs and wild desperation is quite a feat.”

Moriarty shrugged. “Lucky your
boot held off the dog until I arrived. Your brother is lucky to be
alive.”

“Your unerring marksmanship and
my perspicacity have nothing to do with luck. What really brought
you to Longchamps? No lies, now.”

The colonel’s eyes fell on the
mangled boot and he knew he was not seeing the full picture. To
arrive in the stable to find the Countess candidly discussing
Mycroft’s near-death with Sherlock forced him to reconsider what
was real. He no longer believed she was married to Dr Watson. He
went back to his original idea – she was secretly married to
Mycroft Holmes. If it wasn’t for her threat to hold him to account
if anything happened to Mycroft he would have let the dog finish
him off.

“The fresh Kent air, Mr
Holmes.”

“You can do better than that.
We are on the same side.”

“Are we?”

With that the colonel wandered
back to the house the long way via the topiary garden, lighting up
a cigarette to ward off the freezing cold air that stung his face
and nipped his hands. The winter sun had not yet broken through the
blanket of Kentish fog and frost rimed the chess pieces. They took
on the appearance of hoary kings and queens and knights frozen in
time, adding to the unreality of what was going on at
Longchamps.

Trust was thin on the ground
and he always, always, played his cards close to his chest. There
was no other way for a lone Irish wolf to survive. Besides, trust
worked two-ways, or not at all. If someone was keeping something
from him, he was not inclined to share what he knew with them.
Until he could figure out who to trust, he would trust no one.

Dr Watson read the scene in the
cellar with the experienced eye of a medical man who had dealt with
hundreds of soldiers in the messy aftermath of battle. “It’s lucky
he didn’t choke to death. Who rolled him over?”

“I did,” said Ponsonby,
stepping forward. “I came down to the cellar to select the wine for
lunch, to uncork it to let it breathe, and the general was lying
there on his back. I thought he was dead. It gave me quite a turn
to see him sprawled on the cold stones. As if that wasn’t bad
enough I almost keeled over when he started to gag. I realized he
was choking on his own vomit and rolled him onto his side. He
retched and gasped for air and I ran for help.”

It was getting crowded in the
cellar. All the men were there, milling about, handkerchiefs over
their mouths to blanket the stench of fresh puke, except for the
colonel who was still walking in the garden. Ponsonby was praised
and dismissed.

“I’ll need some help getting
him up to his room,” said the doctor, looking for volunteers.

“It’s too far to go,” supplied
Major Nash pragmatically. “We can put him in the valet’s room next
door to you. It’s only one flight up to ground level from here.
There’s a bathroom there too. It will be easier to prepare a bath.
He can be taken up to his own room later, when he’s recovered.”

The plan made sense and General
de Merville was duly undressed by a couple of servants then helped
to the bathroom where a bath with steaming hot water awaited. He
had come to his senses by then and felt heartily ashamed though the
details of how he got to the cellar, why he went, and what he did
when he got there were hazy. He fell into bed and fell into a
fitful sleep, exhausted by the experience.

Miss de Merville was teary-eyed
and refused to countenance lunch. She refused any type of sedative
and asked to be left alone. The Countess sat with her briefly but
they hardly spoke. Miss de Merville just kept repeating, “It’s not
like him. I don’t understand what’s happening. It’s not like papa
to drink to excess.”

The Countess knew that Violet
de Merville was an astute and intelligent member of her sex, not a
woman who had trouble separating reality from fantasy, not someone
who pushed the unpalatable things in life to the back of her mind,
not someone who pretended things were different in order to cope.
So the question that begged to be asked was what had caused General
de Merville to act out of character? Was it a guilty conscience?
Guilt stemming from the bombs? Guilt over the death of Princess
Paraskovia? Or was he the one who secretly passed the note
(presuming there was one) to Mycroft that lured him to the
porch?