The Curse of the Singing Wolf (17 page)

His pawky humour was doing a
poor job of covering up his confusion. Unfortunately, she felt
equally confused, and unless Moriarty was a brilliant actor, he was
confused too. She decided to run her theory past him.

“I think the fire in the hotel
was deliberately lit to lure the four men to this isolated
outpost.”

“When did this occur to
you?”

“Sometime today, I cannot quite
say when. I think the idea had been sitting at the back of mind for
several hours before I finally noticed it. When I mentioned it to
Moriarty he seemed genuinely taken aback. I asked him what motive
the Singing Wolf might have had for luring the four of them here
and he just said: murder – and then failed to elaborate.”

“I wouldn’t mind murdering him
myself!”

“He is not his brother’s
keeper,” she defended.

“Made from the same evil mould.
Crawled out of the same swamp. I bet he has taken over his
brother’s criminal empire. Those four men all have something to
hide. Mark my words. Make sure you lock your door at night and keep
that pocket pistol of yours handy at all times. Have you still got
it on you?”

She patted her pocket. He
looked reassured and his voice took on an incisive inflection.

“Forget queer! There’s
something sinister going on here. Our hostess has disappeared
without trace. I think the four of them are behind it. We need to
stay alive long enough to get out of here as soon as that rockslide
is cleared. In the meantime, don’t hint that we suspect them of
anything. Just play along as if the disappearance of our hostess is
a complete mystery. You can play the superstitious angle, as if our
hostess has turned into an eagle and taken flight. There was a
black eagle soaring in the sky today and there is a legend our
hostess was raised by eagles.”

She decided not to argue. “And
you?”

“I will pretend to be totally
baffled – although I won’t actually need to do any pretending. I
am
totally baffled.”

“Then here’s something else to
add to your bafflement. The doll by itself is not significant,
except that it was found under a pillow. Now, why would a grown
woman keep a doll under her pillow? Furthermore, on the dressing
table was a photo of a baby in a christening robe. Moriarty said he
and the others have been acquainted with the Singing Wolf for seven
years yet he claimed he did not know whether she had ever had a
child. A woman’s dressing table is a very personal space. A woman
sits and contemplates her past and her future as she brushes her
hair and gazes in the mirror. Everything on a dressing table has
personal or sentimental value. The photo was something she
treasured. Hence the image in the photo is important. The child in
that photo means a lot to her. What’s more, inside her jewellery
casket was a painted miniature of a young girl about three or four
years of age, a lovely girl with blonde hair. It is not the sort of
piece a woman has in her bijou collection unless it means something
to her. I have oodles of jewels but I don’t have a painted
miniature and I wouldn’t bother purchasing a miniature of someone I
didn’t know. That miniature holds personal value. I think it might
be the same child. The child in the photo was blonde. The doll is
blonde…”

“Yes, yes,” he cut off
impatiently, “but what has a blonde child got to do with her
disappearance? Let’s say she had a child or adopted a child and the
child died – what then? How is it relevant? Even if she was
suffering from maternal melancholia, which didn’t appear to be the
case judging from the time I spent in her company, then what – she
throws herself off the ramparts in a delayed pique of melancholic
grief? No, no, Reichenbach and I scoured the rocks and the
parapets. There was no sign of anything or anyone anywhere. There
were some wolves sleeping in between the rocks and we checked that
spot even more carefully. The wolves weren’t gnawing away at any
bones. There was no hint, no trace, of any clothing or blood. The
eagle theory is starting to look plausible. I cannot believe I just
said that!”

He emerged from behind the
screen looking dapper and reached for his silver etui. For a man
who had reached his forty-sixth year he was still quite fit and
trim. He had not grown paunchy as so many men his age had done,
though that persistent cough had drained him of healthy colour and
vigour.

“Have I got time for a
cigarette?”

“Not really, light one up and
we can talk as we go. I’ve saved the best for last.”

She straightened his white tie
while he took his first puff.

“Go on,” he prompted, enjoying
the personal feminine attention but trying not to show it.

“Someone visited the bed of our
hostess between my first visit to her chamber to inform her that
her servants did not turn up this morning and when I returned with
Moriarty this afternoon.”

“You said bed not bedroom.”

“Quite! Now, it could not have
been any of the servants because Xenia and Fedir swore they had not
left the kitchen area. It could not have been any of us since we
were all pre-occupied. You must trust me when I say the bed
had
been disturbed. Moriarty and I searched everywhere for a
possible secret tunnel – nothing!”

He stopped walking and looked
her squarely in the eye. “You realize what that means?”

Unable to trust her voice, she
nodded and looked back over her shoulder.

Prince Orczy was uncorking a
bottle of burgundy. The other three men were hovering around the
dining table. Food was being kept warm using silver cloches. Meaty
broth was steaming in a large tureen. Moriarty had informed Inez
and Velazquez to ladle out the soup and then return to the kitchen.
They would continue to serve themselves. The discussion began in
earnest once the six dinner guests were sure they were alone in the
great hall.

Baron Reichenbach explained
that he and his counterpart had not found anything to suggest foul
play or even suicide. Dr Watson backed him up. The view from the
ramparts provided an uninterrupted vantage point of the surrounding
terrain and the slope. He mentioned the wolves, and the fact the
rockslide was still being cleared.

Von Gunn went next. He
described how he and his comrade had checked the domestic rooms,
armoury, well, and dungeons. They could not swear there was no dead
body hidden somewhere in all those storerooms but if that was the
case someone had gone to a good deal of effort to hide it.

Moriarty described how he and
the Countess had checked the eight guest bedrooms and found nothing
untoward. The garderobes were likewise checked and the iron grids
meant it would have been impossible to dispose of a body down the
chutes. When he got to the bedchamber of the Singing Wolf he
allowed the Countess to take over.

Not one to waste words she
launched straight into the doll under the pillow, the photo on the
bedside table and the painted miniature.

“Well, that’s interesting,”
said the Prince. “There was a small chamber adjoining the bedroom
of the old couple. It contained a child’s cot and a chest of girl’s
clothes. I didn’t think much of it at the time. I presumed they had
had a child who had since died. But if we link it to the things
found in the bedchamber of the Singing Wolf then it puts a
different perspective on it.”

“Yes,” concurred the Baron,
leaping ahead. “The old couple might have murdered the girl they
had been charged to care for while the Singing Wolf was in
Biarritz. They then murdered their mistress too and stashed the
body somewhere. They are frail but they had all night in which to
conceal it and no one would know the secrets of this castle better
than they.”

“But why?” asked Dr Watson, who
was a stickler for things like motive.

The Baron shrugged his
shoulders as he slurped his soup.

“The girl might have died by
accident,” supplied Von Gunn. “They may have been negligent in
their duty and knew they would be in serious trouble once their
mistress returned. You would be appalled to discover what some
servants try to get away with. The old man and woman are always
averting their gaze, refusing to look you in the eye. I don’t
believe they are half-blind and half-deaf. I think it’s a ruse to
feign ignorance.”

“Or else they are deranged,”
suggested the Prince, giving his imagination free reign. “A
lifetime of being cooped up in this isolated stronghold with that
dungeon downstairs attached to that gruesome torture chamber might
have sent them mad. They might have killed the girl and chopped her
into a thousand pieces. Did anyone check what went into this
broth?”

“Shut-up!” barked Moriarty. “We
want clear-thinking not gothique fiction!”

The Baron leapt to the Prince’s
defence. “I think Orczy has a point. I don’t mean about the broth.
I mean about the old couple being strange. They are definitely
hiding something.”

Dr Watson swallowed the last
mouthful of broth and tried not to gag. “I am loath to promote
fanciful theories but generations of in-breeding in isolated areas
have been known to increase lunacy in family members. Eighty years
of living in a Cathar castle with its grisly history, well, it
might just tip the scales of minor madness into full-blown
insanity.”

“I would push me over the
edge!” declared the Prince.

“Anything would push you over
the edge!” derided von Gunn.

“Let us stay focused,
gentlemen,” advised Moriarty. “We cannot afford to fall out amongst
ourselves. It will play into the hands of our enemy.”

“Enemy?” challenged the Baron,
uncorking another red and passing it round.

Moriarty looked meaningfully at
the Countess. “Please explain about the bed.”

While the men helped themselves
to suckling pig and roasted vegetables she explained that someone
had been in the bed of the Singing Wolf between the morning and the
afternoon, and that it could not have been any of the servants.

A strange uneasy silence fell
over the table while the men digested this latest bit of news, and
to say a cold shiver passed down their spines would not have been
putting too fine a point on it. Moriarty broke the tranced spell,
lowering his voice so as not to be overheard.

“Just in case it needs spelling
out, gentlemen, we are not alone in this castle.”

The spectre of some
all-pervading fear suddenly took form. Six pairs of eyes glanced
furtively past the shoulders of those seated opposite.

“That lends credence to my
suggestion about a secret tunnel,” asserted von Gunn.

“Keep your voice down,” growled
Moriarty. “But yes, I’m afraid it does.”

“When you say enemy,” said Dr
Watson, backtracking, “I presume you mean Sarazan?”

Moriarty nodded grimly.

Everyone began drawing their
own conclusions. Herr von Gunn was the first to voice them.

“The old crazy couple would be
sure to know if there is a secret tunnel.”

“They could have been
threatened by Sarazan,” added the Baron, who always found his
servants to be loyal and steadfast, “and it’s possible his band of
brigands will enter the castle tonight aided and abetted by the old
couple against their will.”

“The murderous thugs will slit
our throats one by one as we sleep in our beds,” predicted the
Prince, and this time no one bothered to deride his gothique
imagination - they were all thinking the same thing.

“Gentleman,” said Moriarty,
“may I remind you we have a lady in our midst. Alarming
prognostication might be better reserved for later in the
night.”

The Countess was quick to
up-braid him. “Such thinking, though well-meaning is
counter-productive. We are in this together, gentlemen. I think we
need to air all manner of possibilities now, no matter how
distasteful. If there is going to be some sort of attack by
Sarazan, or even if we have two deranged servants in our midst, we
need to prepare -”

“Mon Dieu!” cried the Prince.
“What if the food has been poisoned!”

“Then we won’t need to worry
about an attack by Sarazan,” said Moriarty dryly, spearing a piece
of pork.

Dr Watson intervened. “We need
to prepare ourselves – is that what you were going to say?”

The Countess nodded.

Reichenbach’s military
background came to the fore. “To avoid being picked off one by one
we should all sleep in the great hall tonight. There is safety in
numbers. Two men will take turns keeping watch. I can take first
watch with Orczy. Von Gunn and Dr Watson will take the second.
Moriarty and Velazquez will take the third.”

“I don’t think we should let
the servants know what we are doing,” argued von Gunn. “If the old
couple gets wind of our plan from Velazquez they may tip Sarazan
off.”

“He’s right,” agreed Moriarty.
“The Countess’s man could take the third watch with me. If there is
an attack it will come from the direction of the domestic rooms.
The two doors at the end of the wings are solid oak with good
bolts. I checked them today. It would take a battering ram to force
entry. There is no way anyone can scale the south tower and get
through the window in the latrine – which, by the way, is the only
window facing outwards. We can tip the dining table on its side and
it will provide good cover in the event of a gun fight.”

“We can do the same with the
desk in the library and the pews in the chapel,” suggested the
Prince who was actually feeling a rush of adrenaline similar to
when he gambled. “That will allow us to spread out and draw
fire.”

“Good thinking,” said Moriarty.
“The Countess and her maid can sleep by the fire. Two men can sleep
in the library, two in the chapel, two in the dining room. With a
bit of luck we should be able to hold off an attack that can come
from only two directions – the south tower via those back spiral
stairs and the stairs from the kitchen.”