The Curse of the Singing Wolf Read online

  The Curse

  of the

  Singing Wolf

  ANNA LORD

  Book Five

  Watson & The Countess

  Series

  Copyright © 2015 by Anna Lord

  Melbourne, Australia

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  1

  A Room without a View

  Dr Watson was not the sort of Englishman abroad who went about with intolerable airs and graces, a pretentious twat, a pompous arse, an insufferable bore, who enjoyed lording it over harried hotel staff and hapless foreigners by virtue of some unspoken birthright of Queen and country but it was a question of health, namely his own. It might even be the death of him.

  A violent shade of menopausal pink flushed through his face as he addressed the Napoleonic mountebank garrisoned behind the polished mahogany reception desk of the Hotel du Palais in the sort of priggish tone he would never have dreamed of employing back home.

  “My room was reserved in advance. It is the same room I have whenever I come to Biarritz. Room one-two-seven.”

  He shot-gunned each digit separately to emphasize his point – bang, bang bang! – probably because he felt like shooting the condescending buffoon outfitted in Hussar-style military jacket adorned with pretentious frog-fastening buttons and ridiculous gold-tasselled epaulets. It was all he could do to stop from shouting: Remember Waterloo!

  “It had a view over the terrace towards the lighthouse and…”

  “Oui, oui, monsieur,” cut off the concierge with a supercilious shrug of golden shoulders, “but I cannot evict the guest who is now occupying chambre cent vingt-sept.”

  Dr Watson was loath to make a fuss but now that he had taken a stand he would not back down. It was a matter of principle. “I am not asking you to evict the person in room one-two-seven, but the room you gave me had a view of the stable yard. I had to sleep with my window closed because of the odour of horse dung. My bronchitis flared up from the fetid, stale, rank air and I found it difficult to breathe. It was most unsatisfactory. Surely in a palatial establishment of this size you have another room of which I could avail myself.”

  “Un moment, s’il vous plait.” The concierge swivelled on his heel to check the keys hanging on the brass hooks behind him. He swung back almost immediately. “I am sorry monsieur le doctor, but we are tres occupé, with the exception of rooms 401 to 456. They are on the fourth floor. It is - how you call it? – le grenier, the attic. There is no ascensor to this etage and the stairs they are steep and narrow, not good for those with the breathing problème. The windows they are miniscule and they give a view of the service yard where the smoke it blows from the kitchens day and night, again not good for the lungs. I think you will not like these rooms. They are reserved for the lost baggage, the broken furniture and the lowliest servants. The room you have, it is better for you, vous comprenez?”

  Dr Watson comprehended only too well. The nerves stretched to breaking point were testament to that. “If it is not too much of a bother can you determine if any guests will be checking out in the not too distant future?”

  The concierge heaved a long sigh, ran a forefinger down the hotel register, flipped the page and continued running his digit down the list of dates and rooms. He did this for the next three pages. “I am sorry, monsieur le doctor, but we have no personage checking out until lundi the week next. We have the World Spiritualist Congress en ce moment,” he reminded unnecessarily, mixing English with French which the doctor would normally have found interesting but today found merely irritating. “Last Wed-nes-day there arrive here in Biarritz a large group of Theosophists from America with epouses - how do you say? – their wifes. The day before yesterday there docks in the Bay Basque a sailing ship from the Baltic with the German, the Polish, the Latvian and the Russian spiritualists who come for the congress. And yesterday there comes your steamer ship with the clairvoyants. C’est impossible! I can move you to the honeymoon suite on Monday next – no sooner, monsieur.”

  That did it! The doctor noticed the concierge flick his beady black eyes lasciviously over the Countess – and not for the first time! “I am not requesting the honeymoon suite!” he ground out through gritted teeth, no longer worried about sounding like a pompous English twat. “A room with a window allowing for entry of fresh sea air not tinged with horse dung, belching chimneys and coal dust is all I ask!”

  Sensing that the battle for self-control was about to be lost, the Countess placed her hand gently on the doctor’s arm. The rigid muscles felt like tensioned steel fastened with rusty rivets and she feared the structure was about to crack under the strain. “We can always try another hotel,” she suggested tactfully, hoping he would not burst a blood vessel when those rivets popped. “The boulevards are lined with quaint little inns and comfortable boarding houses.”

  “I refuse to decamp to a boarding house when you have paid good money for my room in advance.”

  The money was of no consequence to her but he had Calvinist-Methodist-Protestant blood coursing through his Scottish veins. “What about that interesting hotel perched like a small chateau on the rock that jutted into the sea? We passed it last night when we took some air after dinner and took a wrong turn at the end of the esplanade. It had wrought iron balconies at the French windows with lace curtains billowing in the breeze. It would be sure to have an uninterrupted view from every window and an abundance of fresh air.”

  The tension in his face visibly melted. “Oh, yes,” he said eagerly, recalling the peppercorn turrets like little witch’s hats crowning what was most likely a maritime fort that had gone the way of most historic buildings that no longer served their purpose until someone with creative vision and deep pockets rescued them and with a little imagination brought them back to life, “just down from the lighthouse at the end of the Plage Miramar. Do you recall the name of it?”

  She shook her head. “I didn’t pay attention to the name. But I noticed through the wrought iron gate that it had a sheltered courtyard garden with an angel fountain and not a soul in sight. It looked a haven of tranquillity. I think it might be that little bit too far from the main boulevard for most of the tourists.”

  Tranquillity – that’s what he needed. He pictured a bedroom simply furnished with a few inexpensive antiques, one window overlooking the sea, another overlooking the courtyard garden where the only noise to disturb the peace and quiet would be the sweet chirrup of birdsong and the soothing burble of water.

  “Are you quite done?”

  Startled by the abrupt tone, Dr Watson whirled round. “I beg your pardon?”

  The speaker was a portly man with a magnificent handle-bar moustache and a ripe New York twang. “I said: Are you done yet? You have been taking a fearfully long time sorting out your room, old chap, and the lady-wife and I would like our key from the major-domo.”

  Mortified, the doctor stepped back to allow the husband and wife to approach the reception desk. He hated to think of the fuss he had made now that the heat had gone out of his anger, and even worse, that he had made a fool of himself in public. He had the Englishman’s dread of public fuss-making. He took the Countess by the arm and steered her toward some potted palms set in a discrete corner of the bustling marble foyer.

  “There is no need for you to relo
cate. You can stay here. You have a perfectly lovely suite with a marvellous view of the sea. And Xenia and Fedir have settled into servants’ rooms at the end of the hall. It will be difficult to replicate such an arrangement in a small hotel and I don’t want to disrupt you. I will pack my belongings and move to that, er, establishment on the rock.”

  He was almost going to say fortress but stopped himself in the nick of time, though a fortress was what he wanted – a fortress against a harsh, modern, superstitious world.

  She wasn’t about to start arguing with him. He looked like he’d suffered enough and she feared his next room would be in a private sanitorium which specialized in health cures for treating psychological disorders or perhaps a padded cell in a mental hospital equipped with breathing apparatus and a straightjacket.

  “Let’s take a fiacre right away. We can check if the hotel has a vacancy before you pack your bags and move out of the Hotel du Palais and end up sleeping on the street.”

  Biarritz was the most fashionable resort on the Bay Basque, and though it was the unseasonable end of November the promenade was packed with wealthy foreign tourists cocooned in furs that muffled them from the biting west wind that blew straight off the Atlantic and almost blew them off their feet. The ladies had their large hats tied down with colourful scarves to stop them blowing away and though frilly parasols were de rigeur whatever the season they were rarely opened at this time of year. A few hardy souls were even braving the freezing cold water - sporting the latest in scandalous bathing costumes.

  The fiacre followed the Avenue de l’Imperatrice until the end of the Plage Miramar where the crowds thinned and the winding avenue began to gradually narrow until they could go no further and had to go the rest of the way on foot. That explained why a hotel with so much outward charm was not overrun with paying guests.

  Steps gouged out of the rock followed the natural curve of the promontory until they came to a pair of scrolled iron gates. A brass plaque set in one of the stone pillars announced: Roche des Chanteurs. Its twin had a brass plaque that announced: Hotel Louve. A third sign set in a small manicured lawn announced: Property privée. And a fourth in the garden bed said: No trespassing.

  “I think they’ve spelled the name wrong,” wheezed Dr Watson as they mounted the last few steps to the front door. “Shouldn’t it be Louvre with an R?”

  “You are thinking of the Louvre in Paris,” she countered. “Louve means she-wolf.”

  “That explains the picture of the wolf on the sign above the door – what an odd name for a hotel by the sea. I wonder if it was originally sea-wolf not she-wolf. There doesn’t seem to be anyone about. I think the wind puts people off staying here. It is certainly blowy.”

  “If it worries you…” she began, thankful that she had swapped her wide-brimmed French chapeau for a snug fur toque.

  “Not at all,” he cut off. “Let’s go inside.”

  The entrance hall of an historic fort-cum-hotel might easily be a bleak and austere space of cold grey stone glinting with military hardware but this one was decked out like a comfortable private sitting room. It contained an unpretentious mix of provincial Spanish and French antiques. There was not a scimitar or sword in sight. A faded Flemish tapestry in bluish hues depicting a galleon at sea graced one entire wall. Beneath it stood a country-style sideboard. Groupings of armchairs were upholstered in embroidered fabric depicting fruit and flowers. The side tables had nicks and chinks from wear and tear that were more endearing for being less than perfect. Huge wooden candlesticks like those found in Italian cathedrals dotted the surfaces. There were no tropical potted palms with spiky leaves, just cachepots of fresh flowers that looked like they’d been plucked from a country garden and arranged artlessly in colourful bunches. An old wrought-iron Venetian-style lantern, rather than a glittery chandelier, was suspended from the centre boss of the vaulted ceiling. The floor was laid using red bricks that felt warmer than slabs of chequered black and white marble.

  “Bonjour monsieur et madame,” greeted the concierge with extreme geniality sans oily attitude and slick smile.

  Dr Watson noted the lack of epaulets and warmed to the man at once. “Bon-jour,” he returned in his best schoolboy French.

  “I may perhaps you help?” the man said, switching at once to English, guessing that the tired-looking, wheezy, older man and the attractive young lady who had just entered minus baggage might be les Anglais, touring le phare, and now in need of directions to the popular Bellevue Casino.

  Full of renewed optimism, Dr Watson addressed the man with none of the bitterness that had soured his tone less than half an hour ago. “Oui, oui, mon-sieur, I am enquiring if you have a vacancy?”

  The concierge didn’t often get it wrong. He scanned the curious couple a second time. The tired-looking man with the puffy pillows under his eyes and the badly trimmed moustache, dressed in tweed wool under a brown herringbone coat with a brown wool scarf that looked like it had been hand-knitted by a great-aunt a hundred years ago, and the jeune femme, much more cosmopolitan, wearing a charming costume Chasseur in velour de laine, fur-trimmed, and carrying a fur muff that looked like genuine mink which matched a Slavic-style mink hat, defied classification.

  Vacancy – quelle surprise!

  “Monsieur, will be requiring a double suite? Non? Chambres ensemble? Separate salles de bain? Is that what monsieur would prefer?”

  “Oh, I should have clarified,” muttered Dr Watson, feeling slightly embarrassed, “just the one room with salle de bain and if possible,” he finished slightly less hopefully, “a view of the sea and the lighthouse or perhaps a window overlooking the courtyard garden.”

  The concierge cocked a thin dark eyebrow and smiled at the Countess. “Madame will not be requiring a room of her own?”

  The Countess felt the welcoming ambience of the foyer tug at her heartstrings. It was a homely establishment and the last thing she expected to find in a popular seaside resort brimming with glitz, glamour, and bourgeois trimmings.

  “I have a perfectly adequate suite at the Hotel du Palais but your establishment has a welcoming ambience and it would be most convenient if I could stay at the same hotel as my travelling companion and good friend, Dr Watson. If it is possible to have a suite on the same floor – une chambre avec salle de bain donner sur le mer - I will arrange to transfer my belongings toute de suite. Cependent, j’ai besoin de deux chambres pres de moi pour deux servants. C’est possible?”

  “Certainement, madame,” obliged the concierge, slipping once more into his native tongue. “Nous avons deux chambres, deux salles de bain, donner sur le mer et le phare, avec le balcon et le petit salon tres joli sur le troisieme etage. Pas problem! Nous n’avons que quatre personnes actuellement. Ce n’est pas le haut saison.”

  The Countess bestowed a luminous smile on the concierge that never failed to find favour. “Je vous remercie. Je suis la comtesse Volodymyrovna.” She swapped back to English for the benefit of Dr Watson. “My two servants will be along shortly with our luggage. I will pay for all four rooms in advance – let us say a sojourn of one week. Your hotel serves breakfast and dinner?”

  “Le petit dejeuner, le dejeuner et le diner, la comtesse. Il y a chef formidable!”

  She turned to her companion. “Did you catch all that?”

  Dr Watson was beaming. “Breakfast, lunch and dinner - let’s go back and arrange to transfer our luggage at once. But I must insist on paying for all four rooms. And please don’t argue. It is my treat!”

  Waiting discretely in the shadows but listening attentively to the exchange was a lobby boy, not much more than twelve or thirteen years of age. He wore the standard uniform of lobby boys with shiny brass buttons, a trim of gold gimp and a cap like a fez. The tightness of his trousers indicated that like most boys his age he was growing out of his uniform rather rapidly. The trouser hem sat above his ankles, revealing a pair of thick woollen socks and a pair of spit-polished lace-up boots. It was a good profession for boys from imp
overished families and some of the cleverer lads could even rise to the role of concierge in the course of time.

  The concierge clicked his fingers and the boy snapped to attention. He stood as stiff as a ramrod while being addressed.

  “Milo, tell Desi to prepare the twin chambers on the third floor at once, plus the two small chambers in the west wing for two servants.”

  The boy moved like the mistral but without any of the destructiveness.

  The Countess arranged for the cost of all meals to be charged to her account and for her servants to have their meals in their own rooms to avoid other guests getting their noses out of joint. She and Dr Watson would not be taking lunch for she had already set her heart on lunching at the crêperie overlooking the Plage Miramar, but they reserved a table for two for dinner in the hotel dining room.

  As they turned to go, the door flew open, letting in a gust of icy cold Atlantic wind, a fine flurry of Basque sand and a tall, thin, angular, immaculately groomed gentleman. He crossed the foyer with buoyant steps, moving briskly straight toward them, taking in the pair of mismatched interlopers at a glance and briefly meeting the Countess’s gaze with an appraising glint in his sky blue eyes, before breaking off abruptly and veering adroitly toward the desk of the concierge. Some ruffled flaxen curls contrasted with a well-trimmed triangular wedge of golden fluff sprouting from a pointy chin. One couldn’t help thinking that he had been born into the wrong century for he had the air of a Regency dandy and moved with the dandified swagger of a minor aristocrat born with a silver spoon in one hand and a cheroot in the other from which he supped and smoked with equal pleasure - the sort of gentleman who would have cut an equal dash in a saddle as on a dance floor.

  The concierge addressed him as Prince Orczy.

  A blustery breeze whistled around the rock and stung their faces, playing havoc with the sign above the door which swung back and forth in violent protest. There would be a squall by nightfall, possibly a storm. The doctor and the Countess had just gone a few steps down the path when the she-wolf broke loose. Had they been standing on the front step the sign might have cracked a skull or two. The Prince and the concierge came rushing out to check on the destruction.