The Curse of the Singing Wolf (14 page)

Herr von Gunn and Prince Orczy
opted to search the domestic rooms which included the kitchens,
storerooms, laundry room, well room, cellar, armoury, dungeon and
torture chamber. This section was vast and contained more chambers
than the two wings and the south tower put together.

That left the east and west
wing and the private apartments of the Singing Wolf to the Countess
and the Irishman.

Chateau de Chanteloup was not a
large castle. The size had been limited by the plateau on which it
was built. It was not an exercise in grandiosity, not a statement
of majesty and power, it was predominantly a refuge in a time of
religious persecution when war was conducted via hand-to-hand
combat and siege engines. Nevertheless, they all agreed it would
take the rest of the afternoon. They would not meet up again until
dinnertime.

The ramparts followed the
craggy outline of the rocky plateau thus no line was straight for
long. The Countess’s description of an eagle with wings
outstretched was a good one. In fact, it came as no surprise to
find an eagle riding the thermals. What
was
surprising was
that the great bird was not above their heads but below where they
were standing.

“It is not often one looks down
at an eagle,” marvelled Dr Watson.

Reichenbach trained his
binoculars on the bird of prey. “You should come to Switzerland. I
can show you some nature scenes that will take your breath away.
You will not only stand higher than the eagle, you will feel like
you can fly.”

“I have been to Switzerland,”
replied the other dryly, a catch in his throat. “In fact, I have
been to a place called Reichenbach Falls.”

“A tremendous waterfall, named
after a mountaineering forebear of mine, but I imagine it holds no
good memories for you,” the Baron commiserated. “I understand your
friend, Mr Holmes, met his end there.”

Dr Watson turned to study the
black eagle soaring
en plein air
. He was not very good at
dissembling and needed to avert his gaze lest his blurry eyes
betray him. “Yes, I intend to make a pilgrimage there some time
soon.”

“You must let me know when you
are coming. You can stay at my summer chalet on Lac Lucerne. I can
show you some marvellous sights. Are you interested in
fishing?”

A passion for fishing was not
something the doctor needed to feign. He nodded
enthusiastically.

“Wonderful! Wonderful!”
declared the Baron. “The stones here are loose but none show any
signs of recently falling away. Shall we walk on?”

The crenellations were likewise
largely intact and the height of the walls, designed to shield
archers, made a mockery of the idea that anyone might lean over and
fall accidentally to their death. The black eagle was still riding
the current of air below them, it seemed to be following them
around the ramparts. Baron Reichenbach thrust the binoculars at Dr
Watson.

“Here, take a look. Our
hostess, known by all and sundry as the Singing Wolf, occasionally
went by the name Iolaire Dubh. It means black eagle. I heard a
story once that she was raised by eagles and wolves. I think she
made it up herself to add to her own aura of mystery. It was the
sort of thing she would do. I hope this eagle is not going to drop
a trout!” He gave a hearty chuckle.

Dr Watson was grateful to have
an excuse to look away. “How did you meet her?”

“It was about seven years ago
at the Passion Play in Oberammergau near Innsbruck. She was
performing on the stage. We met afterwards at a party thrown by
Baron Adelbert Gruner. Are you acquainted with Gruner?”

The doctor shook his head.

“More’s the pity for you! He is
a true Renaissance man. His palace near Schwanenberg puts the
palace of Mad Ludwig in the shade. Neuschwanstein is a mere
bagatelle compared to Gruner’s
piece de resistance
.”

The doctor always blanched
whenever the term Renaissance man was trotted out to describe
someone. Renaissance men such as those from the clan Medici were no
better than gangsters and thugs, the looters and murderers of their
day, no different from Sarazan, just more successful. The artists
who created their masterpieces were treated no better than slaves
and most died in terrible poverty.

“Our mysterious missing hostess
seems like a true Renaissance woman,” commented the doctor airily
in an attempt to elicit more information. “How wealthy do you
imagine she is?”

“I imagine she is
extraordinarily wealthy,” admitted the Baron, pausing to gaze over
the parapet at the steep terrain below.

“I suppose she gained her
wealth through her singing?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” agreed the
Baron unconvincingly, sounding like a Medici Pope claiming he
earned his wealth through the power of prayer. “Although there is a
story she found some Cathar loot but it puts me in mind of that
story about the eagles and wolves.”

Dr Watson handed back the
binoculars. “More myth that truth?”

“Designed to make her sound
mysterious.”

“I say, wouldn’t it be
interesting if it turned out that the story was true and she found
the treasure here inside Chanteloup!”

The two men laughed and walked
on. The black eagle cleaving the sky was now a pinprick in the
distance. The only thing following them round was the shadow of
Chanteloup like the arm of a sundial casting its long shadow on the
flat featureless plain below.

The steep mountainside was
matted with low-growing saxifrage, tufts of grass and patches of
winter wildflowers. The few trees that had managed to take root
between cracks in the rock barely clung to life, spindly examples
of their robust botanical cousins. There was no sign of a dead
body, although they did spot a pack of wolves resting among the
rocks and checked carefully to make sure they had not recently
devoured something human. There was no sign of any bones and no
sign of torn clothing.

Upon completing their
inspection of the ramparts and immediate outskirts, Dr Watson and
Baron Reichenbach turned their sights to the stables, barns and
outbuildings. Since the servants had not arrived, it fell to them
to feed and water the horses and donkeys. They took the opportunity
to scour the stalls and pens. They moved through the outer bailey,
the inner bailey, and the various courtyards. They checked the wood
yard, sheds, workshops, coops, and last of all, the kitchen
courtyard which was by far the most cluttered. They did not find
anything that led them to believe the Singing Wolf had been killed.
That is not to say they could swear to having examined every inch
of ground with a fine tooth comb. If someone had wanted to dispose
of a dead body they could have managed it by stuffing it in a
barrel and nailing the lid or burying it under a pile of rubble –
but the effort would have outweighed the necessity. And it
certainly ruled out the hand of Sarazan.

Herr von Gunn and Prince Orczy
started their search in the kitchens. There were plenty of nooks
and crannies to choose from. Unfortunately none of the hidey-holes
was stuffed with a dead body. Most of the storage space in the
dairy room, meat room, plate room, and so on, consisted of open
shelving. They could see at a glance what was contained within. The
larder and cool room were stacked from floor to ceiling with bags
of flour and sugar, jars of oil and olives, and boxes of
vegetables, but no dead body.

The well room came next. The
pulley with the bucket attached would have made it difficult to
shove a dead body down without some sort of help. The water was
clear and cold. Nothing had tainted the water supply. The cistern
below was probably immense but there was no access except through
the well-head.

Though it was barely
mid-afternoon, the next level was drear and dark so they lit some
hurricane lamps and descended some dank stairs. The wine cellar was
cavernous but sparingly stocked. They reminded themselves that only
one occupant normally lived here. Some fresh cases that had
recently arrived lay about unopened. They were not big enough to
hide anything larger than a dog and none looked as if they had been
tampered with.

“Here’s a Chateau d’Yquem,”
said Prince Orczy, blowing a layer of dust from the side of the
bottle. “We’ll take this with us.”

“I’ll grab this cognac,” said
von Gunn. “The other bottle is getting low. There’s not much here
but the quality is good.”

“Let’s leave the bottles here,”
suggested von Gunn. “We can come back for them.”

The dungeons came next, a
series of small cells. A vile stench made them feel sick. The
narrow dark stinking corridor opened into a torture chamber with
all the usual grisly toys: iron chair, iron maiden, strappado,
Judas cradle, heretic’s fork and Procrustean bed. They tried not to
think of the poor wretches who had ended their days here at the
sadistic whim of religious fanatics. Some must simply have gone mad
listening to the horrific screams of fellow human beings, women and
children as well as men.

“Do you think that story about
the hidden Cathar loot is true?” asked the Prince, peering closely
at some scratches in the wall, trying to make out the name of
someone who wanted to be remembered for their suffering, for their
faith, for their death.

“Do you mean in general or
specifically related to the Singing Wolf?”

“Let’s take the general
first.”

“Yes, certainly, the Cathars
knew they were going to be tortured so why would they enrich their
torturers? The Inquisitors showed no mercy to heretics rich or
poor. They were in it for the fun. Wealth was something that
mattered to their Catholic masters in Rome, not to them. The
Cathars had time to hide their riches so it makes sense that they
would.”

“All right, the specific.”

Von Gunn looked around the
grotesque chamber and gave a shudder. “I never really believed it.
I always thought it was just a fairy story put about by hopeless
romantics. But this place, and I don’t just mean this sickening
chamber we are standing in, but this whole mountain certainly makes
one believe such stories could be true. Yes, it is possible the
Singing Wolf bought Chanteloup as a personal refuge and stumbled
upon a hidden hoard of gold and jewels.”

“The fact she retired early
from the opera lends credence to the fairy story. I’ll check the
cells. You keep checking in here.”

Clumps of mouldering straw had
gathered in the corners. Von Gunn gave each pile a quick prod with
his silver-topped walking stick. But the only things hiding in the
straw were cockroaches, rats and vermin.

They retrieved their bottles
and followed another set of stairs that wound back up and began to
breathe easier knowing they were leaving the chamber of horror
behind them. A turning on the stairs led them into an armoury
crammed full of medieval weaponry, rusty armour, and spare
furniture. This took a little longer to check but the result was
the same. The bedrooms of the four servants from Biarritz came next
and once again revealed nothing of interest. Further along was the
room where the old caretaker couple slept. It was part of the
kitchen complex and they could smell food cooking. It was oddly
reassuring. The old man and woman must have had a daughter at some
stage because there was a second room adjoining their own with a
child’s cot and a chest full of girl’s clothes. Later, when Prince
Orczy questioned Almaric and Hortense they looked sadly at each
other, hung their heads and fell mute. Out of sympathy, he let the
matter drop.

The two men took it upon
themselves to quiz Milo when they came across him while checking
the back stairs that Inez had mentioned during her questioning. The
lobby boy was bringing up a bucket of water from the well and
carrying it through to the scullery where Desi was washing up the
platters from lunch. The glasses from the night before were
standing on a wooden sideboard. Each goblet was a rare specimen of
beautiful coloured glass said to have belonged to the Doges of
Venice - another priceless horde that Sarazan might have made off
with had he been motivated by plunder. And what brigand was
not?

“When did you last see your
mistress?” von Gunn put abruptly to the lobby boy.

The boy picked up on the blunt
tone and shifted uneasily. He was accustomed to being spoken to
harshly. He had hardened himself to the demeaning insults of men,
for it was mostly men, and no longer resented the servility that
was his lot in life, but he had not failed to notice the strange
goings-on all morning starting with the failure of the other
servants to turn up for duty and it made him nervous. He knew at
once it meant more toil for him but it also made him feel queer in
his stomach when the foreign lady came down to the kitchen before
lunch. Such ladies did not usually visit kitchens. He quickly
resigned himself to being back where he started when his own mother
turned him out the door - turning the spit in a sweltering kitchen,
sweating so much he almost passed out, smoke burning his eyes,
cleaning out the hot ash, flecks of soot stabbing what was left of
his eyeballs, laying fires at the crack of dawn, carting wood and
water until his blisters wept and his hands were red raw with pus
and bleeding sores. He had not spoken to Desi. What could he say?
She was scared too. He could see it in her coal-black eyes. There
was no point speaking to the old couple. They talked only together
in hushed tones in a dialect of their own. And he had seen the men
going in and out of the rooms, even into his own little airless
chamber which he shared with Velazquez, and then Desi’s too. And
the men walking along the walls, as if searching for something they
had lost. With a sudden sense of sickening shock he realized what
they were looking for.

“I did not see her from the
time we arrived here at this place, signor.”