The Curse Of The Diogenes Club (5 page)

This chap was taking
dressing-up to a whole new level - grizzled beard, blackened teeth,
eye-patch, hook for a hand, gold hoop earrings, filthy pantaloons,
scruffy boots, twin cutlasses, two antique firearms, and a smell
like rotten fish.

There was no way known this
unwashed pirate had received a royal invitation to the ball. It
wasn’t just the bad breath and foul body odour that told the good
doctor this fishy buccaneer needed to be reported at once; there
was something menacing about his demeanour.

Ah, there was the vigilant
Horatio Hornblower standing in one of the box balconies that
punctuated the mezzanine. Major Nash would know what to do.

Dr Watson executed an about
face sharpish and was racing up the stairs, taking them by twos
when a man in a Musketeer outfit came rushing down, almost bowling
him over. He could have sworn it was Colonel Moriarty but there was
no way the Irishman would have been issued with an invitation to
the royal ball either. He watched the Musketeer disappear swiftly
around a corner as if he was up to something fishy as well.

Now, he knew the Countess had a
soft spot for the Irish colonel, perhaps even a secret affection
she was loath to admit to, but warning lights began flashing in his
head. He needed to find Major Nash at once.

By the time he reached the box
balcony it was vacant. Quickly, he scanned the ocean of froufrou
and saw that Horatio Hornblower had changed direction and taken a
different set of stairs and was currently tacking windward toward
the Snow Queen who was conversing with a woman dressed as a
Valkyrie with scandalous body armour that left little to the
imagination.

Turning hastily on his heel, he
doubled back and had reached the top of the landing when he tripped
and fell down the stairs. He felt every painful thud and clunk as
he bounced and crash landed in the corner where the stairs turned.
That’s probably what saved his life. It was the shortest flight and
not the longest; otherwise he would have been a goner.

Just before he blacked out he
realized someone had deliberately tripped him up. In that moment,
just before nothingness closed around him, he glanced back up and
he could have sworn he saw a face he recognized.

And then it was gone.

Major Nash lost sight of the
Russian ambassador. From the vantage point of the balcony, he’d
observed the nobleman chatting to the Countess but by the time he
came down the stairs she was conversing with the Valkyrie. He
kicked himself twice. Firstly, because he’d lost sight of his
quarry. Secondly, because he could not approach the object of his
desire while she was in the company of a femme fatale he detested.
He then kicked himself a third time. He’d lost sight of Jim as
well.

Something was happening in the
foyer. People were milling round and there was an unhealthy buzz.
With more force than necessary he elbowed his way through the
elegant crush and arrived in time to see a man wearing a tartan
kilt being carried off by four guardsmen.

“What happened?”

A senior officer recognized him
and saluted. “This chap took a tumble down the stairs, Major Nash.
He’s out cold. There’s no infirmary so we’re taking him to the
guardroom where someone can keep an eye on him till he comes
round.”

“What’s your name,
Captain?”

“Thompson, sir.”

“Well done, Thompson. Is there
a doctor who can take a look at him?”

“There’s Frye, sir. He’s a
medical orderly. He’s on duty outside the gentlemen’s
latrines.”

“Get him to take a look. If
there’s anything serious let me know at once. I want to know when
this man comes round as well. That’s all, Captain.”

Major Nash developed a bad
feeling in the pit of his stomach as he watched them cart Dr Watson
away. He lingered in the foyer, eavesdropping on conversations.

“That Scotsman was rushing
backwards and forwards like a lunatic!”

“He barged right into me!”

“Some men cannot hold their
liquor. It is disgraceful!”

“Disgraceful who they will
allow into these events nowadays too! Have you seen that
foul-smelling pirate? There was a time when…”

The well-honed instincts of
Major Nash warned him that something wasn’t right. Dr Watson wasn’t
the type to rush about like a lunatic and he was no drunk either.
He backed himself against a wall between a pair of marble columns
that marked the corridor to the gents cloak rooms and ran a canny
eye over the Mughal foyer.

At the top of the double
staircase was a superbly dressed lady in a purple and gold brocaded
Renaissance costume with lots of expensive jewels that looked like
the real thing but she hadn’t spoken to anyone all night. He’d
spotted her several times out of the corner of his eye. She
casually circumambulated the mezzanine as if looking for someone
but she was always alone.

There was General de Merville
and Sir James Damery at the top of the stairs too. They were with
the American cigar tycoon, Mr Bruce Blague. Perhaps they’d seen
something suspicious? But if they had they would have reported it.
It wasn’t the right time to question them.

Leaning against the balustrade
that looked down into the foyer was the official photographer. He
was carrying a new type of folding Kodak camera that did not
require masses of equipment or a tripod stand. There was a second
photographer in a studio directly above them. The studio had a
beautiful painted backdrop of the Brighton Pavilion for those who
wanted the traditional style portrait to commemorate the night, but
this chap was roving and snapping whoever didn’t object to being
immortalized
au natural
.

Mycroft Holmes was in a private
sitting room at the far end of the pavilion. His boss hated these
sorts of events and preferred to keep out of sight.

Major Nash was in two minds.
Should he report what had happened? Or let it go? What if Dr
Watson’s tumble had been nothing more than an accident and he
jeopardized his real mission by putting the wind up everyone?

Should he tell the Countess her
friend had had an accident? But what if she insisted on sending the
doctor home in her troika and then decided to accompany him? He
wanted to be with her at midnight. He wanted more than anything to
take her in his arms and deliver that first magic kiss just as the
old century ticked over into the new one.

Jim! Where the hell was Jim? He
wouldn’t be surprised to learn a Musketeer had been standing at the
top of the stairs when the so-called accident happened. No time to
track him either. His prime mission was to keep an eye on the
Russian ambassador.

Nerves were kicking in. He was
feeling edgy. A quick search of the smoking rooms was called for.
Jim was probably holed up in one of them. Maybe he should have had
him evicted straight away. Why wait? Something wasn’t right. He
could feel it in his gut. The longer he left it to take action the
worse it would get.

When he re-entered the ballroom
two things alarmed him.

The Countess was standing in
one of the box balconies chatting to the mysterious Renaissance
lady in purple and gold. It appeared as if they knew each other and
it gave him a slight shock.

In the adjoining box, was an
evil-looking chap in a bizarre pirate costume. It wasn’t just the
sinister get-up that set off alarm bells, it was the fact the man
was armed to the hilt. Two gleaming cutlasses and two flintlock
pistols were tucked comfortably in his leather belt. This costly
knees-up was turning into a fucking nightmare!

He was about to take the stairs
by twos and collar the Blackbeard lookalike when a voice waylaid
him. It was Captain Thompson.

“Just wanted to let you know,
sir, that the chap who took a tumble is not seriously injured. No
broken bones. He has some heavy bruising and slight concussion. A
proper doctor was found among the guests and he has given the chap
a sedative to calm him. He was a bit delirious when he came round.
Ranting and raving and not making much sense. He’s sleeping now and
will probably not wake until the fireworks are over.”

“Thank you, Captain Thompson.
Before you go, there’s something you can do for me. There’s a guest
here dressed as Blackbeard the pirate. He is heavily armed with
flintlock weapons and I don’t like the look of him. Choose two men
you trust and corner him but do it discretely. I’d like to
interrogate him. If you can escort him to the stable without him
making too much of a fuss that would be appreciated.”

“Yes, sir, right away,
sir.”

The string quartet was being
replaced by an orchestra. The dancing was about to start.

Major Nash was ready to track
down the Russian ambassador when another voice waylaid him. This
one was seductive, husky and deadly.

“Good evening, Major Nash, are
you here in a private capacity or as
staff
?”

It was the voluptuous Valkyrie,
breasts as dangerous as a set of matching cannon balls about to go
kaboom. He didn’t want to give her the pleasure of seeing him drool
so he made sure to fix his sights on her winged helmet. The last
word was pronounced with disdain.

“Staff,” he said flatly. He
might have lied but what would be the point? She’d already
humiliated him once and she’d probably do the same again if he
pretended to be more than what he was – a penniless baronet. The
bigger the audience, the more she enjoyed rubbing salt into the
wound. The rich young men trailing in her breathless wake looked
like a bunch of smug arseholes.

“Oh, what a pity,” she purred
condescendingly wearing the smile of a shark about to go in for the
kill. “I was about to save you the first waltz.”

“That wouldn’t be possible,”
interrupted someone else. “Major Nash has promised the first waltz
to me. I understand he is
never
off-duty but I begged him to
spare me a few minutes of his valuable time.”

The Valkyrie swung round, and
the twin cannons swung round with her. “Oh, it’s you, Countess
Volodymyrovna. How fortuitous. The orchestra is starting with a
Viennese number. Have you seen Prince Sergei?”

“Yes, he is dancing with Miss
Violet de Merville who is dressed as a shepherdess. I can see them
through the archway as we speak. I wish we could converse some
more, Mrs Klein, but a Viennese waltz waits for no woman. By the
way, your
mouche
has slipped.”

Mouche
meant fly in
French but the Countess was referring to the beauty spot that was
the height of fashion last century.
Mouches
came in silk and
velvet and all manner of shapes. Isadora Klein’s
mouche
was
heart-shaped.

Major Nash took her arm and led
her onto the dance floor, and she was pleasantly surprised to
discover the baronet did not have two left feet.

“Have you seen Dr Watson?” she
asked as soon as they fell into step. “I haven’t seen him all
evening.”

“Yes, he took a tumble down the
stairs.” He heard her gasp and felt her pull away; his grip
tightened and he made sure to pull her closer. “No need to feel
alarmed. A doctor has seen him. He is sleeping calmly in the
guardroom. A sedative will keep him there until after the
fireworks.”

A flicker of genuine concern
was evident in the wide-eyed startlement of the blue-grey eyes.
“You can assure me he is not injured?”

“I can assure you he is fine.
By the way, thank you for intervening back there.”

“I presume that you and Mrs
Klein have some history?”

“We did but it’s over.”

“I imagine she eats handsome
young men for breakfast.”

He laughed and they both began
to relax. “She prefers her admirers young and rich. When she
discovered I could not afford to buy her any baubles from Old Bond
Street she decided to make an example of me.”

“Her loss is my gain – you
dance very well.”

He glanced up to make sure the
crazy pirate wasn’t on the mezzanine, and spotted Jim instead. The
Irishman was watching them hungrily from behind some red velvet
curtains – let him eat his heart out. He pulled her as close as he
dared and off they went spinning.

As soon as the dance was over
she convinced him escort her to the guardroom to see Dr Watson for
herself. The guardroom was a separate building at the far end of
the pavilion. It meant they had to go outside through the foyer and
along the full length of the veranda. He knew Jim would follow them
and this was his chance to get the Irishman evicted. Once Jim was
outside it would be impossible for him to come back in again
without an invitation that had his name calligraphied in fancy gold
lettering.

The doctor was sleeping like a
baby on a makeshift bed set behind a partition wall. Reassured that
her friend had not suffered any serious injury and that he was
quite comfortable, they began making their way back to the foyer,
passing the Musketeer on the way, tucked tightly into a niche.
Major Nash pretended not to notice.

Once they returned to the
foyer, Prince Sergei claimed her in a dance and it freed Major Nash
to issue some instructions. He spotted Captain Thompson as he was
about to go outside.

“Did you collar the
pirate?”

“No, sir, he is proving
elusive. I have six men scouting the pavilion but he appears to
have gone to ground. Should I put more men on it?”

Nash frowned. “No, we don’t
want to alarm the guests. Keep the six men at it. There’s someone
else who shouldn’t be here. He may be a Fenian sympathiser. He is
currently outside and will try to gain entry. I want you to take
charge personally. Stand guard at this door with four of your most
trustworthy men. This man is dressed as a Musketeer. As soon as he
appears I want you to arrest him and then have your men escort him
to the police wagon by the stable block. Lock him inside. I’ll deal
with him later tonight.”