The Curse of the Singing Wolf (10 page)

“How long has Sarazan been
terrorizing this region?” asked the Baron, chest-puffing out at the
mention of his illustrious ancestor, Charlemagne.

“For as long as I have been
here,” replied the Singing Wolf.

“The French Army should do
something about it,” declared the Baron.

“The French army regards the
south of France as a foreign country,” said their hostess.

“That sort of thing would not
be tolerated in Prussia.”

“Nor Germany,” vowed von
Gunn.

“The Balkans is overrun with
outlaws,” countered Prince Orczy wryly. “It adds to the romance of
the place. Women find dangerous men and wild places exciting and
erotic. Germany and Prussia lack soul. They are too industrialised,
too urbanized, too sterile. Wolves and bears and lynx are being
killed off in huge numbers…”

“Speaking of wolves,”
interrupted Moriarty who was not in the mood for a lecture from a
penniless princeling whom he had noticed aiming more than a casual
glance at the Countess. “I’m sure I heard a wolf howling as I was
dressing for dinner.”

“Do not worry, gentlemen,”
teased their hostess. “The gate is barred. The portcullis is down.
You are safe. Nothing can get in.”

“Or out,” joked Dr Watson,
feeling immeasurably relieved the building wasn’t about to crash
around their ears. “I must congratulate your cook. The jugged hare
for entrée was delicious but this venison du chasseur is
superb.”

“The black truffle sauce was a
brilliant accompaniment,” complimented the Baron, mopping up the
noir-ish juices on his plate with a tranche of bread.

Velazquez came to clear the
plates and they all congratulated him of his knife-throwing. The
handsome toreador seemed embarrassed by all the praise and limped
away awkwardly, juggling an armload of Sevres china. Everyone held
their breath, but no violent crash could be heard. He had made it
safely down the stairs to the kitchens.

Inez and Desi brought out a
lemon posset for dessert and it rounded off the meal
wonderfully.

Prince Orczy turned to the
Countess. “I meant to tell you yesterday but, well, with everything
that has happened in the last twenty-four hours I hope you will
forgive me.”

“Yes,” she prompted, curiosity
rising.

“Princess Roskovsky died the
day we set off for Chanteloup.”

“Died! No!
Pas
possible
!”

He continued sadly. “I’m afraid
it’s true. She was run over by a carriage on the
rue de
russie
as she was crossing the road to the Orthodox
church.”

“How do you know?” quizzed
Moriarty, who was not the sort of man to accept announcements of
sudden death at face value.

“I heard it from the cabbie the
morning of the fire. I was heading off early to the casino and had
hailed a fiacre. The cabbie had just come from the
rue de
russie
and he thought that since I had a Slavic-style accent I
might be interested to know that a Russian princess had just been
killed.”

“Did the carriage driver stop?”
asked the Countess.

“No, that’s the thing – he just
kept going as if nothing happened.”

“What sort of carriage was it?”
she probed further.

“I put the very same question
to the cabbie and he told me it was a brougham.”

“Cabbies are maniacs!” declared
von Gunn vociferously. “I was nearly run down on the
rue des
pins
. I was forced to leap for my life as a landau tore past
with total disregard to pedestrians and perambulators alike.”

“Did the brougham have a
monogram?” pursued the Countess.

“The cabbie said it had no coat
of arms and no markings of any sort,” replied the Prince.

“It could not have been a
private carriage, then,” reasoned Moriarty.

“It is akin to murder,”
concluded Dr Watson gravely, his sympathy going out to his
counterpart, for though he had not taken a liking to the Russian
barnacle, he would not have wished her dead.

“Yes, indeed!” expostulated the
Baron. “The Princess Roskovsky was murdered by a lunatic in charge
of a horse. Such things would never be allowed to happen in
Prussia.”

“Nor in Germany,” vowed von
Gunn.

The two men glared at Prince
Orczy, daring him to say such things were commonplace in the
Balkans – he did not disappoint.

“Pedestrians are run down and
killed every day in Montenegro. It is practically a national
pastime.”

“I suppose it adds to the
romance of the place,” sneered von Gunn.

“And the erotic danger,” jibed
the Baron.

“Let us not make light of
death, gentlemen,” interceded their illustrious hostess solemnly.
“The Princess Roskovsky is dead. I will light a candle for her
departed soul. Anyone who would like to join me in the chapel will
be welcome.”

The simple altar was graced by
a distinctive Occitan cross made of solid gold with hollowed out
arms and three small spheres on the end of each arm. Candle-stands
fitted with dozens of beeswax candles were reflected in the
tripartite golden arms.

The men went down on one knee,
resting an elbow on the other knee so as to support the chin in the
classical pose of the thinker. The two ladies knelt on both knees.
Heads were bowed and each person made a silent prayer. Their
hostess sang a mournful hymn and everyone felt choked by the
sadness of the melody for there is no doubting that music by-passes
the brain and goes straight to the heart. The lyrics were in the
ancient language of Oc but heartfelt emotion is universal and
everyone understood the sentiment. At the end of the hymnodia they
blew out the candles and drifted into the sitting area where
comfortable settees and tapestried wing chairs faced toward the
fire which was no longer blazing fiercely. Prince Orczy passed
around a humidor in the shape of a Cathar castle. Baron Reichenbach
handed out glasses of Madeira. The atmosphere at Chanteloup was far
less formal and thus far less constraining than they were
accustomed to in the stately homes of Europe where guests
interacted within a rigid set of social rules. Here, in this
ancient stronghold that had seen social customs come and go, things
were far more relaxed. There were no servants hovering behind their
backs for a start, and they took pleasure in doing things for
themselves instead of being waited upon hand and foot. That’s
probably what helped them to drop their guard and speak more
freely. Dr Watson set the ball rolling with a candid
confession.

“I was thinking while I was
praying for the Princess Roskovsky that there must be many
murderers who are never brought to justice.”

“Yes,” agreed their hostess,
smiling benignly at the doctor while holding her cigar steady for
Moriarty to light. “I’m sure we can all remember an incident where
a murder has occurred and no one has been brought to justice.”

“What an odd thing to think
while praying,” mused the Prince as he lit his own cigar using a
faggot from the fire. “I was thinking of numbers spinning on a
roulette wheel.”

“You would,” jibed the Baron
sardonically.

“My mind was blank,” admitted
von Gunn, puffing on a fat cigar. “That’s what happens whenever I
step foot inside a church.”

“Lutheran dogma will do that to
you,” derided Moriarty, half in jest. “I wish my mind would go
blank in church. I think about battlefields and picture limbless
men and writhing horses. It’s the horses I feel sorry for.”

“You sound like you are
suffering from some sort of psychosis,” returned von Gunn with odd
good humour. “You Irish love your horses more than your women from
what I’ve heard.”

Moriarty laughed richly. “To be
sure! To be sure! But we men cannot dominate the conversation when
there are two ladies present.” He turned to their benevolent
hostess. “Dear lady, what were you thinking while you were
praying?”

“I was thinking about sin.”

Moriarty turned to the
Countess. “And what was Countess Varvara thinking while praying for
the Princess Roskovsky?”

“I was thinking about the last
time I spoke to her.”

“Bravo!” congratulated the
Singing Wolf. “At least one of us has an ability to focus. Why
don’t we put our focus to the test and recount an incident where a
murderer has gone undetected.”

“Unpunished or undetected?”
clarified Dr Watson.

“Undetected,” she replied.

“Undetected but not
unsuspected?” checked the Countess.

“Yes, otherwise we would merely
have a death and not a murder. Murder presupposes the death to be
suspicious and thus there must be a suspect.”

Herr von Gunn pushed to his
feet. “I must beg off. Today’s trek has completely –”

“Nonsense!” snapped their
hostess, cutting him off and fixing her sights on the men who were
squirming in their seats, preparing to also
beg off
. “Don’t
tell me you are tired, gentlemen. We dined early to make up for
missing lunch. It is not yet eight o’clock. As a guest it is your
duty to indulge the whim of your hostess. Indulge me. Who wants to
go first?”

Dr Watson, who already had in
mind a murder where the murderer got clean away, volunteered. He
was really beginning to enjoy himself and couldn’t remember the
last time he actually offered to go first in a party game. Since
arriving at Chanteloup his misgivings had melted away and his body
and soul felt lighter.

“My story is set in Edinburgh,”
began Dr Watson. “I was a boy of twelve and too young to realize
the implications of all that happened until much later. One of our
more prosperous neighbours decided to wallpaper his wife’s bedroom
as a surprise for her birthday while she was visiting her family up
north. He selected a vivid green flock paper with scrolls of
foliage. It looked like a fairy tale forest and was much admired by
everyone who saw it. The praise went to his head and he decided to
paper the ceiling, the door and even the bedroom furniture.
Thrilled with the result, he purchased vivid green moquette to
match. Within the year the wife fell ill. Nothing was diagnosed
though she visited many doctors, including my father, and tried
every cure imaginable. She spent more and more time in her room,
growing weaker and weaker. Eventually she died. Several years later
an article was published in a medical journal linking green dye
with arsenical poisoning. Why do I think the husband got away with
murder? He had taken out a substantial insurance policy on his wife
the week he began papering her room. He worked as a law clerk next
door to a wallpaper manufactory. Whenever he papered he wore a
breathing mask and gloves. A month after the wife died he sold the
house and migrated to Australia.”

“An excellent recount, plainly
and clearly expressed, Dr Watson,” praised their hostess. “The
husband got away with murder. Who will go next?”

“I will,” said Prince Orczy,
who was born with a competitive nature and did not like the idea of
going last, even going second irritated him, but the slow-witted
Scottish doctor had been quick off the mark and beat him to the
punch.

“Very well,” said the Singing
Wolf, giving the nod to the Prince.

“My story is set in an area
renowned for having a large and pristine lake. Two brothers, rivals
for the same girl, go out rowing one evening just as the sun is
setting. They are strong rowers and have no fear, though clouds are
banking up and a summer storm is brewing. All the other boats have
gone back to shore. They know the waters of the lake well for their
home is on the southern bank and they have grown up there. They
know the shallow spots and the deep water. They row and row. The
storm breaks. Darkness falls. Next morning the eldest brother is
found dead, floating face down where the water laps the southern
bank. A search is mounted. God is merciful. The second brother is
found alive. He has managed to swim all the way to the northern
shore. The dinghy has sunk without trace. How do I know the second
brother killed the first?”

“He married the girl,” joked
Moriarty.

“Yes, he married the girl. He
also swam every day. The elder brother suffered from asthma. He
tired easily in water and cold water always sapped his
strength.”

“That is a bit feeble,”
grumbled von Gunn.

“Ah, but a third party was
standing on a balcony looking through a telescope at the silvery
waters in the storm. That person saw one brother stand up in the
dinghy and rock dangerously from side to side just before the
dinghy capsized.”

“That sounds like boyish
high-jinks,” observed the doctor.

“Manslaughter at worst,”
commented the Colonel.

“At the inquest the observer
could not swear which of the brothers had rocked the boat and since
he was merely holidaying by the lake he soon departed and the
incident was forgotten. The surviving son inherited a not
insubstantial fortune.”

“Thank you, Anton,” said the
Singing Wolf. “Who will go next?”

“I will,” jumped in von Gunn.
“My story is set in a military academy highly regarded for turning
out well-heeled officers. It likewise involves two men.”

“Two brothers?” posed the
baron.

“No, just friends.”

“And a girl – there is always a
girl?” said the Colonel teasingly.

“Cherchez la femme!” laughed
the Prince.

“Yes, there is a girl in the
background, but this one is a sister of one of the men.”

Von Gunn paused to draw on his
cigar. He was not used to storytelling. He was a businessman not a
raconteur like Anton or a natural wit like the Irishman or a born
strategist like Reichenbach who understood the complexities of a
beginning, middle and end.

“Go on,” prompted the Baron.
“We are an impatient bunch.”

“Accustomed to being readily
gratified,” jibed the Prince.

“Well, one of the men said
something which dishonoured the sister. The second man, her
brother, challenged him to a duel.”