The Curse Of The Diogenes Club (12 page)

“He would also be in favour of
the amendment,” added Dr Watson.

“Most likely,” said Mycroft
vaguely.

“Where does de Merville stand
on this?”

“If you want to know de
Merville’s views you must ask him.”

“If he is opposed,” opined
Sherlock, “that would put him at odds to his friend Damery.”

Mycroft glanced at his fob
watch then pushed to his feet and directed his words to his hostess
and niece. “Thank you for dinner. I have an early start tomorrow.
Don’t let me break up the party. I instructed my coachman to return
for ten o’clock and it is a quarter after the hour. I don’t want to
leave him sitting out in the cold for too long. Please don’t
inconvenience yourself. I will see myself out.”

Despite Mycroft’s declaration,
the Countess walked with him to the door to satisfy herself that
his coachman was indeed where he should be. When she returned, Dr
Watson and Sherlock had removed themselves to the library end of
the drawing room. A coal fire having burned quietly in the grate
all evening warmed the length of the room nicely. Dr Watson
re-lighted his calabash and closed his eyes. Sherlock lighted his
briar pipe and looked earnestly at his daughter.

“Do you still have the Russian
nesting doll?” he asked, curious to see what such a doll actually
looked like.

She shook her head. “I put it
on the dressing table in Clarges Hotel and after Prince Sergei’s
visit it disappeared.”

“He took it with him?”

“Yes.”

“I wonder why?”

“A memento mori perhaps?”

“But then why place it in the
bath with her – presuming he killed her?”

“Perhaps it was a spontaneous
decision to take it when he spotted it on the dressing table. The
prince must have assumed Mycroft found the dolls, including the
smallest doll. By taking the dolls he let Mycroft know they were
not his to keep.”

“Hmm, it is up to the three of
us to save my brother,” he said bluntly. “There will undoubtedly be
a third attempt on his life and I don’t think we will need to wait
too long to see what form it will take. We could go round and round
in circles debating the Irish question and the amendment to the
constitution of the club – my thought is that they are linked.
There is no doubt de Merville and Damery have taken sides, either
together or opposed. Appearances can be deceiving. They may even
appear to be opposed but working in cahoots. Men are generally
self-serving. If it is in their interests they will oppose their
own mother without compunction. Now, it is impossible for me to go
undercover inside the club, and likewise Watson, so that leaves,
you.”

He looked directly into her
blue-grey eyes, the spitting sharpness of his. “With some clever
make up, a wig, a moustache and a small beard, I think you might
pull it off. The main obstacle would be the hands. Fortunately the
butlers in the Diogenes Club are required to wear white gloves. The
‘no speaking’ rule eliminates any voice problem. You have grown up
with butlers around you so you are familiar with butlers’ duties. I
think it might be easier to pull off than we suppose. What do you
say?”

The prospect of going
undercover inside a gentlemen’s club was too tempting. She didn’t
need to think too long. “Yes, of course. I regard it as an
opportunity to help Uncle Mycroft, and a challenge that any novice
detective would not hesitate to take up. If I am going to garner a
scandalous reputation I would rather it be for what I did rather
than who I slept with.”

“Splendid,” said Sherlock,
before turning to look squarely at his friend who had been
listening despite resting his eyes. “Watson, you will not be idle.
It is common knowledge that members of the Diogenes Club can often
be found in the Turkish Baths on Northumberland Avenue. In fact,
the baths are often referred to as the Greek Pool as a nod to
Diogenes and not homosexuals as many erroneously believe.
Clandestine conferences are known to be held there. Again, it is
impossible for a man with a mechanical arm and no left foot to make
use of a Turkish Bath and remain incognito, so it will be up to
you, Watson, to hang about there as often as possible to see who
comes and goes. You will need to put it about that you are
suffering from lumbago or an imbalance of the humours, whatever you
wish. Not such a bad assignment, hey?”

“Not at all,” said Dr Watson,
feeling confident that he could pull off a bit of lounging around
and watching who comes and goes. He hadn’t been to the Turkish
Baths for ages, in fact, not since the incident at Reichenbach
Falls. Going there always reminded him of the intimate times he had
shared with Sherlock. It wasn’t the same without him.

“That leaves me,” said
Sherlock. “I shall not be idle. I shall find myself a role. But if
you don’t mind I will keep it to myself.”

“We haven’t touched on the
death of the princess yet,” said the Countess. “Uncle Mycroft’s
reaction to her death has been puzzling me.”

“In what way?” asked
Sherlock.

“He seemed to take it
personally, as if, well, as if he had somehow caused it. At first I
thought it might simply be a delicate diplomatic incident that
needed careful handling, but the more I thought about it the more
it seemed somehow personal. And his over-reaction to your comment
about the vanity of princesses seemed to trigger something.”

“I certainly touched a raw
nerve,” admitted Sherlock.

Dr Watson withdrew his ebony
mouthpiece. “Quite frankly, I was shocked. I have never even heard
Mycroft raise his voice. I put it down to nerves and a guilty
conscience – not that I am suggesting he had anything to feel
guilty about. The bombs may have been intended for him but he is
not personally responsible for them. Even tonight he seemed on edge
and reticent to discuss things with his customary candour. It was
as if he was being guarded and obscurantist.”

“He is definitely holding
something back,” agreed Sherlock, “in fact it is not an
exaggeration to say he may even work against us in this matter,
against his own best interests. It is up to us to watch out for him
since he is unwilling to watch out for himself.”

No one spoke for a few minutes.
It was the Countess who broke the silence.

“We have not even touched on
Prince Sergei. When he spoke to Uncle Mycroft in the hotel room I
got the impression the two men were duelling - lunge, thrust, parry
- it was like a fencing competition in which they understood the
rules but no one else had a clue. What remained unspoken seemed
more relevant than what was said.”

Sherlock placed his briar pipe
on an ashtray and steepled his fingers. “Yes, the death of the
princess may be at the root of this matter and my brother is
keeping something important to himself. I don’t think there is any
point pushing him. It will be counterproductive. He will simply
pull up the draw-bridge.”

Later that night, after
Sherlock and Dr Watson had taken themselves off to Baker Street,
the Countess couldn’t help feeling that Sherlock was holding
something back as well.

Tendrils of mist like milky
whey curled on the surface of the lake and snaked through the wood
of Copper Beeches, throwing a mantle over the furtive
rendezvous.

“Let’s get this over with,”
growled Colonel Moriarty as soon as a familiar shadowy figure
stepped out from the inky darkness swamping the trees. “It’s bloody
cold out here. Got any smart ideas? If not -”

“Just one,” interrupted Major
Nash in deep and throaty muffled tones signalling intense
irritation. “If I hadn’t been busy chasing
you
or that
pirate, or wondering about the lady in the purple and gold dress
who turned out to be the Countess’s maid, or keeping an eye on the
Russian ambassador, I would have paid more attention to that
roaming photographer.”

Moriarty had spent a good part
of the day beating himself up about his lack of attention as well.
“Yes, he had to be the bomb man. He was free to roam. If anyone
questioned what he was doing he could immediately pretend to be
fixing something on his camera. We don’t even know if his camera
worked. He could have had bombs concealed inside the device. Though
it’s pretty clear someone else directed him where to place them.
Today, I spoke to the men who had been on guard duty and no one
remembers seeing him after the bombs exploded.”

“What about the other
photographer – the one working in the studio?”

“Well, he’s different. He was
stuck in the studio the whole time. The roaming man is the one who
would have had the chance to do serious damage.”

“We need to follow-up both
men.”

“Agreed,” said Moriarty. “Did
you have a chance to think about how – shhh!”

Military training kicked in
when a rustling sound in the undergrowth alerted them to the fact
they might not be the only two men in the wood. Instinctively they
moved to take cover, silently extracting the revolvers buried deep
in their coat pockets whilst straining for the next sound and
sieving it from the usual nocturnal noises.

After a few anxious moments
with breaths on hold, a red fox emerged from the coppery bracken
equally alert to any danger. It froze, twitched some whiskers,
cocked its ears, and sensing peril, fled. The two men relaxed their
guard.

“Where did you leave your
horse?” whispered Moriarty.

“By the stable block. I hung
around for a bit to make sure I wasn’t being followed before
heading this way.”

“I left my horse in the
carriage porch and wandered around a bit to make sure no one was
tagging along. Let’s move to the other side of the lake. You go
that way. I’ll go this. Meet you in about ten or fifteen minutes by
the pump house.”

Both men heard a dull splash as
if a creature was going for a midnight swim but it was too dark to
make anything out. They continued skirting the lake and by the time
they reached the pump house they had convinced themselves that
nerves had caused them to over-react.

“You were saying?” prompted
Major Nash, keen to get on with the rendezvous.

“Did you come up with any ideas
how we might proceed?”

“You were right in that we
cannot go about questioning de Merville or Damery or Prince Sergei.
Even if they agreed to see us they would either lie through their
teeth or simply string us along. It would be a waste t of
time.”

Moriarty was surprised he and
Nash were in accord yet again; he couldn’t remember the last time
the two of them could agree on anything discounting the time they
cornered The Hon. Pugsy Setterfield in a corner of the Hellfire
Club and forced him cough up what he owed them. That was the thing
with the self-entitled – they settled their debts with their
betters but never their inferiors. Most tradesmen went broke
because the self-entitled rich never paid them for the work they
had commissioned.

“So that leaves us
nowhere.”

“Not quite. Listen to my
proposal. It’s a long shot but it might just get us moving in the
right direction.”

Moriarty was willing to
consider all ideas at least once no matter how dunder-headed. “Go
ahead, I’m listening.”

“We need to gather the main
suspects together in one place and let interaction and conversation
take its natural course while we listen and observe.”

Dunder-headed scheme was right.
“Where did this idea spring from?”

“Last night when Mycroft Holmes
lost his rag it got me thinking. Something must have got under his
skin. In five years I’ve never heard him so much as raise his
monotone above a low-level drone. If we hadn’t been sent packing we
might have learned something useful in the conversation that
followed.”

Moriarty wasn’t convinced. “So
where exactly did you have in mind for this gathering of main
suspects?”

“I thought the Countess could
hold a dinner party at her house in Mayfair. The only hiccup is
that people are on their best behaviour at dinner parties and
–”

Moriarty laughed risibly. “We
must move in different circles!”

“Any way, then came the spark.
We could gather under the roof at my place in Kent.”

Moriarty tried not to laugh
even more risibly but it was impossible; he guffawed loudly. “You
mean that wobbly-walled Tudor barn! Has it still
got
a
roof?”

Nash took no offence; he hated
the old Tudor millstone around his neck that held no happy
childhood memories. “A new slate roof – as a matter of fact.”

“I presume some half-timbered
stumps are holding it up?”

Nash decided to nip sarcasm in
the bud. “My great-aunt died three years ago in Canada. It was her
dream to see the family seat restored to its original glory. She
entailed enough money in her will for the restoration of
Longchamps. It meant I couldn’t spend the money on anything else
but at least the Tudor barn won’t collapse under my watch.”

“What did you call it?”

“Longchamps.” He pronounced it
like the French.

“I thought it was called
Crowditch or Cowbyre?”

“They’re the names of some of
the cottages on the estate.”

“All right, Kent it is, but how
do you expect to lure anyone to Longchamps? Prince Sergei Malamtov
is hardly likely to accept an invitation issued by a penniless
baronet.”

“I’ve been giving it some
thought. Mycroft will have to issue the invitations. He can explain
how he wants to bring everyone together to discuss who set the
bombs to kill the Prince Regent and he can say he wants to hold the
meeting away from London’s gossip-mongers, hence the private
country house of his aide de camp.”

“The bombs weren’t intended for
the Prince Regent,” pointed out Moriarty.

“We know that but as far as
anyone else is concerned that’s who the bombs were meant to kill.
No one will want to look like they’re not concerned for the good
health of the heir to the throne. Ergo, they will attend. The
Countess will have to be in on it because I don’t have any
servants, just one old retainer who is on his last legs. She has
about fifteen servants in Mayfair. The more she can spare the
better.”