The Curse of the Singing Wolf (34 page)

It was not until they were back
on board the private train of the Singing Wolf that Dr Watson had a
private moment with his counterpart. They closed the carriage door
on the world and took a deep breath.

“I still don’t see how you
deduced the Singing Wolf and Sarazan were one and the same,” he
vexed.

“I deduced it as soon as I
stopped trying to force the facts to fit my preconceived notions.
The black leather costume was in
her
closet among
her
opera gowns yet I presumed it belonged to someone else. I presumed
it belonged to her lover, ignoring the fact it would have fit her
like a glove. I took for granted she gained her wealth from opera
singing or some secret Cathar hoard for which there had never been
an ounce of proof, only rumour and hearsay. I presumed Moriarty was
searching for secret tunnels and treasure maps on the occasions
when he was scouring floorboards, furniture, paintings and books,
ignoring the possibility he might have been searching for something
else – namely a stash of incriminating proofs used for
blackmail.”

“Blackmail?”

“The Singing Wolf earned most
of her income through blackmail. A
chanteur
is a singer but
a
maître chanteur
is not a master singer, it is a
blackmailer. The Singing Wolf was a
maître chanteur femme
.
She was blackmailing the four men. The stories they told that first
night made that clear. That’s why the men were reluctant to join in
the story-telling.”

“I told a story too,” he
reminded. “It had nothing to do with me personally.”

“Yes, but she knew their
stories were true to them, they had no way of fudging. In the end
they recounted each other’s stories to thwart her. They were
asserting themselves against the power she held over them.”

“Asserting themselves?”

“Four strong-willed powerful
men would baulk at being blackmailed by a woman and made to perform
for her amusement. She was toying with them. Remember, the next day
she was going to drop the bombshell of the illegitimate daughter. I
think she was making sure they understood who held the reins of
power. The Hotel Louve should have given me fair warning something
was going on behind the scenes. It was isolated and preferred male
guests, very few women stayed there. It employed an exceedingly
handsome homosexual ex-toreador and a beautiful flamenco dancer who
entertained guests and serviced their rooms. When Inez told me she
and Velazquez were employed to extract information from guests
which could then be used for blackmail I wasn’t really surprised.
They were being blackmailed too. They too had something in their
past that they did not wish anyone to know. Velazquez had killed
his best friend in the bull-run in Pamplona and Inez had given
birth to a baby girl whilst unmarried. The Singing Wolf seemed to
pick up
employees who had something to hide. Milo had killed
a man in Sicily. When Desi came begging for work the Singing Wolf
must have thought to herself that the girl would have a secret or
two that she would not want the world to know. That presentiment
was a savage piece of irony that led to her own death at the hands
of her own daughter.”

“Hang on! If the four men were
being blackmailed and recounting each other’s stories that means
they were, er, are actually murderers!”

“Yes, exactly, they came every
year to the Hotel Louve out of season not to enjoy the brisk sea
air of Biarritz but to pay
chantage
. They have been coming
for seven years. They must have come to know each other well,
recognized in each other a fellow victim, and eventually learned
each other’s stories. If the Singing Wolf had discovered something
about us we would have returned each year to pay up too. Inez would
have gone to your bed and Velazquez to mine.”

“That’s outrageous!”

“Remember how smitten you were
by Inez that first night at dinner? You were being set up from the
very start. She would have flirted with you in your room,
demonstrated some flamenco, and
voila
, who’s to say what
might have happened thereafter.”

He turned brick red and decided
to backtrack. “Er, yes, but, well, how do you know the men’s
stories weren’t their own?”

“The Princess Roskovsky had
already recounted to me a story about Prince Orczy and a duel he
had fought. Yet the story about a duel was told by Herr von Gunn,
not the Prince. If that story was told by the wrong person then it
stood to reason that the other stories had been too. Baron
Reichenbach owns a summer villa on Lac Lucerne yet a story about
two boys in a boat on a lake was told not by him but by Prince
Orczy. Moriarty told a story about a political revolutionary and
some homemade bombs. It could only have been Herr von Gunn he was
referring to. And finally the story about the poor boy who killed
his drunken father by altering the height of one step was told by
Baron Reichenbach.”

“That boy was MMMoriarty!”

“Yes,” she confirmed.

“The men are all cold-blooded
killers!”

“Hush! Keep your voice down!”
She flicked a telling glance at the carriage door.

Dr Watson lowered his tone,
though moral indignation clung to every grating syllable. “They
will never be brought to justice, you realize that?”

“Yes, the crimes were committed
long ago. The chance for justice died with the Singing Wolf.
Incriminating papers may come to light but I doubt it. I don’t
think the Singing Wolf kept written proof. The men searched in vain
when they ransacked their own rooms. I think she kept it all up
here.” The Countess tapped the side of her head.

The doctor suddenly remembered
the role of the flamenco dancer. “What about Inez? Her life is in
mortal danger if she goes off with Reichenbach!”

“No, she told me it was the
Singing Wolf who slept with the four men. Inez would be aware of
some sort of blackmail but she would not know the details.”

He slapped the side of his
head. “What about the girl? We cannot leave her in the hands of
murderers!”

“What is the alternative? We
leave her at Chanteloup? One of those men is her father. Children
love their parents and wish to be with them regardless of their
murky past. It takes a lot to kill unconditional love. I believe it
is the best outcome for Lalique to be with one of the men and Baron
Reichenbach seems best fitted to provide for her up-bringing. I
intend visiting Reichenbach Falls next year. If you are free at the
time you might wish to accompany me. We can look in on the girl and
see how she is faring. You mentioned the Baron invited you to stay
at his villa on Lac Lucerne. We can kill two birds with one stone.”
She saw a pained look pass over him and realized her poor choice of
phrase. “I’m sorry. I realize the Falls must conjure painful…”

“No, no, it’s all right. I was
thinking of going back to the Falls at some future time. I would
welcome your company.”

They both turned to look out of
the train window as it skirted the foothill of the Pyrenees and
while Dr Watson recounted the tragic myth of Pyrene he took out his
silver cigarette case and extracted a Bradley. “Shall I light one
for you?”

She shook her head and
proceeded to light one of her own cigarettes. Bradleys were fine
occasionally but she preferred her own gold-tipped foreign
cigarettes. They were darker, slimmer and more sophisticated. It
was like the difference between a stodgy bread and butter pudding
and a chocolate
soufflé
. The carriage soon filled with
aromatic wisps of blue smoke. Dr Watson finished his cigarette and
stood up to open the window an inch or two to vent the foreign
fumes. He found the pungent aroma of the exotic gaspers
overpowering. It was like the difference between a pot of freshly
brewed tea and a pot of burnt hot chocolate. It wouldn’t surprise
him if the vile tobacco had been deliberately tainted with opium,
though it didn’t seem to cloud her judgement, perhaps it even
enhanced it.

“What made you suspect
Desi?”

She butted her cigarette in the
ashtray before tossing it out of the window and slamming it shut to
keep out the cold west wind.

“It wasn’t a conscious
realisation. I was dozing off when it suddenly struck me. Again, it
was only when my preconceived notions fell away that I realized
Desi fit all the facts. I presumed that what Velazquez heard that
first night was the Singing Wolf making love to a man - as did he -
but the heavy breathing and panting could have been the sound of
someone being throttled to death. Ecstasy and the throes of death
are surprisingly similar. Strangulation takes brute strength so
that meant it had to be someone strong. I thought the clanging
sound Velazquez described was the bucket in the well room but it
was the iron grate in the garderobe. Later, I presumed it was
Lalique who out of childish spite against a neglectful mother
slashed the red and gold dress the Singing Wolf wore when she sang
the role of Desdemona, but Desi was short for Desdemona and she was
the right age for being conceived at the same time as the opera was
being performed, fifteen years ago, and one of the men mentioned
that Iago was actually black, meaning he was Negro. It is highly
likely he fathered Desi. The Singing Wolf was just beginning her
career so it made sense that she did not wish to be encumbered with
a child, especially a black child that everyone would guess
belonged to the Black Baritone. Desi had been ill-treated all her
life. She harboured great animosity toward the mother who had
abandoned her to a life of suffering. Driven by the sheer rage that
still burned within her even after she had killed her own mother,
she slashed the dress. It is easy for us to tut-tut but who knows
what any of us is capable of under such circumstances. We like to
tell ourselves we are more moral, more rational, more sanguine, but
I suspect a lifetime of lovelessness, humiliation and abuse can
turn the mildest creature into a monster.

She was driven to killing Milo
even though she liked him. He was her only friend but it was a
matter of survival. He knew she wasn’t where she said she was the
night the Singing Wolf was killed. She was strong enough to remove
the log that held the wood stack back and quick enough to leap out
of the way before the falling wood crushed her leg. She was adept
with a knife, having worked in a circus. She was usually in the
scullery, nearby to the woodshed. Once she had killed her mother it
was easier for her to kill again.

It was the same with Herr von
Gunn. She murdered him because he had spoken harshly to her more
than once. I think she’d finally had enough of being insulted and
belittled. Likewise, his murderer had to be someone who could throw
a knife and who was physically strong. She fit the bill both
times.

Inez told me Desi was lying
about Velazquez ever visiting her bed. He preferred men. He was
disgusted by Desi. If he went to Inez’ room it was probably to
converse in private. They were both Spanish and had much in common
regarding their roles at the Hotel Louve. They probably viewed each
other as confidantes, more like brother and sister, never as
lovers.

After those things fell into
place it suddenly occurred to me that Lalique’s life might be in
danger. If Desi had killed three times there was nothing stopping
her killing a fourth time. She would have felt as much hatred for
the pretty girl as for the selfish mother who had disowned her. To
suddenly discover she had a beautiful little half-sister who had
been loved and cossetted must have come as a disturbing shock. I
knew she would have to strike that night because the next day she
would be gone from Chanteloup and the chance would be forever lost.
I arranged for Fedir to take Xenia’s place in the south tower, for
Lalique to transfer to my bed, and for Moriarty to act as back-up
should Desi prove too strong to overpower. And before you rebuke
me, I decided not to wake you because I was aware you had slept
badly the night before and you were not feeling your best.”

Wincing inwardly, he pressed
his lips together and didn’t reply though he knew what she said
made sense. His feelings were nevertheless hurt. Why Moriarty? Why
not Reichenbach? But he knew the answer. She was attracted to the
Irishman despite his family’s criminality. He consoled himself with
the fact she had not slept with the Fenian. It was small
consolation but it was something. Guilt caused another inward wince
and a wrench of shame. Lulled by the gentle rocking motion of the
train he closed his eyes and pressed his head into the crook of the
padded headrest. She left him to catch up on some sleep.

In the saloon car Prince Orczy
was teaching Lalique how to shuffle cards. Baron Reichenbach was
dozing in an armchair. Moriarty was smoking a cigarette and leaning
his hips on the rail of the rear balcony. Behind him the French
countryside was fading into the distance. They would soon arrive in
Biarritz and look back on the last few days as if remembering an
allegorical dream.

“I haven’t thanked you for
stepping up when I asked for your help.”

He gave a careless shrug and
tossed his spent cigarette onto the receding train tracks. “I
haven’t figured out how you knew it was Desi.”

“I suppose Dr Watson’s
sleuthing skills must have rubbed off on me,” she returned
blithely.

“Assuming he had any to begin
with,” he dismissed with a sarcastic rejoinder. “It is my
impression his companion in crime fighting, Mr Holmes, was the
brains
and
brawn. I don’t know what part Dr Watson ever
played, unless it was as general dogsbody.”

“That is a rather harsh
assessment.”

“Harsh but true.”

“Were you acquainted with Mr
Holmes through your brother?” she tested.

“No, I was quite a few years
younger than my brother. We did not move in the same circles. It is
just an impression I formed from passing conversation while I was
growing up.”