The Curse Of The Diogenes Club Read online

  The Curse Of

  The Diogenes Club

  ANNA LORD

  Book Eight

  Watson & The Countess Series

  Copyright © 2016 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

  Matryoshka Doll

  Mycroft Holmes was rasping into one of those new telephonic devices and his deadpan monotone sounded like it was echoing down a vibrating wind tunnel before dropping off a cliff.

  “Clarges Hotel,” he repeated windily, “not Claridge’s.”

  Telephones were not expected to replace the telegraph any time soon despite the number of kiosks springing up on street corners. There were simply too many telegraph offices and an endless supply of errand boys who were quick, efficient and reliable. Nevertheless, there were now more than five hundred subscribers in London, drawn mostly from prosperous merchants or rich individuals who considered them a novelty.

  Countess Volodymyrovna was not yet a subscriber but while enjoying afternoon tea with Miss de Merville at Brown’s Hotel something happened that made her mind up for her.

  The concierge informed her there was a telephone message which she could take at the reception desk.

  “I heard you the first time but your voice sounds tightly wired. The words seem to be suffering from sound delay. It must be a faulty connection.” She smiled politely at the concierge while talking into the mouthpiece to Mycroft; it seemed odd to be making eye contact with one person while having a conversation with someone who was not even present. She wondered if this new device would eventually play havoc with the hemispheres of the brain.

  Mycroft either didn’t hear what she said or chose to ignore it, which of course was much easier to do on a telephone. “My ADC will be arriving shortly to pick you up in my carriage. You remember my aide de camp, Major Nash?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Don’t mention to anyone where you are going.”

  There was an abrupt click at the other end of the line, and no sooner had she hung up the receiver her end than the ADC appeared in the foyer.

  Major Inigo Nash, endowed with Icelandic eyes, a rich backsweep of Danegold hair, Norse features and Viking proportions, always put her in mind of Thor. In accord with the personification of a mythic being, he wasted no time on preamble.

  “I see you’ve just received the call. Shall we go?”

  Whew! These new devices were ushering in social change at a cracking pace. “First, I must settle the bill for afternoon tea and bid goodbye to Miss de Merville.”

  “I’ll settle the bill,” he said sharply. “You are aware you cannot mention -”

  “Yes, yes, but I cannot just run out on my friend. I have to supply a reason for leaving at short notice or she will think I am conducting an illicit liaison with you at Clarges Hotel. She is gazing curiously at you through the double door and wondering about you already.”

  He immediately angled his muscular frame to avoid scrutiny. “Please refrain from mentioning the name of the hotel until we are in the carriage. And it doesn’t really matter what she thinks as long as she doesn’t guess at the truth. Tell her it has something to do with the Princess of Wales and leave it at that. If she presses you for more information just say something vague along the lines of it being highly confidential.”

  A few moments later they were seated in an unmarked black carriage with the black velvet curtains half-drawn. He appeared to be preoccupied with flicking his wolken gaze from one side of the gap in the curtain to the other without moving his head. She got the distinct impression he was checking to make sure they weren’t being followed.

  “I presume Clarges Hotel is in Clarges Street,” she said, “is that the same street that runs off Piccadilly near the end of Green Park?”

  “You have never been there before?” The question betrayed mild skepticism.

  “No, I have never even heard of it before.”

  He was probably wondering about her connection to Mycroft Holmes. The way he was studying her when he thought she wasn’t looking suggested he thought she might be conducting an illicit liaison with the imperious civil servant at Clarges Hotel.

  “I’m guessing my hasty summons has nothing to do with the Princess of Wales or you wouldn’t have offered the royal name up as an excuse to run out on Miss de Merville.”

  “I am not at liberty to say.”

  She pressed on undeterred. “What sort of hotel is Clarges?”

  “Sort?”

  She didn’t reply; he could make of that word what he liked.

  He met her gaze for the first time since taking the seat directly opposite and it was like a melding of metallic hues from blue to grey. “It is a small private hotel owned by the Fisk-Manders family, with a reputation for…discretion.”

  Hmm, the way he paused before relaying that final word suggested that perhaps Mycroft was the one conducting an illicit liaison and had just been caught out by a disgruntled husband. He did sound rather breathless and desperate on the telephone, although it was hard to tell if he was actually gasping for breath or if it was the result of a poor connection.

  Nevertheless, the speed at which one could communicate convinced her to install a telephone in number 6 Mayfair Mews. She pictured a candlestick device in gold and ivory.

  She hadn’t seen Major Nash since Christmas Eve and since he wasn’t about to divulge any further useful information there was no point sitting in stony silence dreaming up a thousand cock-eyed scenarios involving Mycroft and an unhappy husband.

  “Did you spend a pleasant Christmas in Kent, Major Nash?” she enquired amiably to pass the short time it would take them to travel from Albemarle Street to Clarges.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  The courtesy was woefully short on content. “I believe you once mentioned your family seat was in Kent?”

  “Yes, not far from the hamlet of Longchamps.”

  “You don’t mean Longchamps Hall?”

  “It is referred to as Longchamps. The word Hall was dropped in 1753.”

  “Has it been in the family all that time?”

  “It has been in the family since the reign of Henry VIII; 1515 to be precise.”

  “I remember catching a glimpse of it from the train; a large Tudor house. It appeared to sit comfortably in the weald not far from Leeds Castle. Do you go home often?”

  “Rarely. The title of baronet and the family seat did not come with any wealth attached. I am obliged to earn a living in the City.

  “Have you held the post of ADC for long?”

  “Several years.”

  It was like extracting blood from a stone. “Will you be celebrating New Year’s Eve in London?”

  Tonight was the last day of the nineteenth century and grand parties to usher in the twentieth century were planned for the length and breadth of England, the largest and grandest being the Prince Regent’s costume ball in Battersea Park where a miniature replica of the Brighton Pavilion had been erected especially for the gala occasion.

  “I am obliged to go where Mr Holmes goes.”

  She didn’t realize Mycroft considered his ADC quite so indispensible. She had not given the matter muc
h thought, but she would have assumed his duties did not extend very far beyond the walls of the Diogenes Club and the precinct of Pall Mall.

  “Here we are at Clarges,” he said as they pulled up in front of a tripartite Georgian terrace which had been converted into an understated hotel. “Mr Holmes awaits you on the third floor. It is the topmost level of the hotel apart from servants’ quarters in the attic. There is no elevator. We will have to use the stairs. I have been given strict instructions to take you up via the back stairs to avoid being observed by any of the hotel’s guests.”

  It sounded as if Mycroft had definitely been caught with his pants down. What was it about men in positions of power and illicit affairs! She wondered if she would have to step in to rescue the reputation of some high-born married lady. She couldn’t keep putting herself forward as the ‘other’ woman or her own reputation would start to suffer.

  He paused at each landing to allow her to catch up, and although she considered herself fit, he was fitter, plus it was no rummy-fun swishing all those petticoats and flounces on a set of steep, narrow, poorly lit, servants’ stairs.

  “I’ll give you a moment to catch your breath,” he said when they reached the third floor. “This entire level has been taken up by one guest. You need not fear being seen going into the bedroom.”

  The corridor was furnished like a Mayfair mansion with tasteful antiques and hand-painted wall paper in the chinoiserie style. Gasoliers designed to look like Chinese lanterns gave off a red and gold glow that dispelled the wintry gloom.

  Mycroft was waiting for her in what appeared to be an enfilade of bedroom and dressing rooms. Fortunately, he was wearing his trousers and there was no distressed naked damsel weeping into the pillow of the vigorously rumpled bed.

  “Close the door, Nash, and stand guard. I don’t wish to be disturbed. No one is to enter this room until I give the say so.”

  The tense tone belied the appearance of normality. It could have been any luxurious hotel room in any city in the world. Without another word Mycroft waited until the door closed then ushered her into the adjacent bathroom where a woman lay in a claw-foot bath. There were splashes of water on the floor and the woman was dead. Her head had lolled back on the curved rim of the enamel bath and one arm dangled over the side. She was an attractive woman in her late thirties or early forties. Her honey-coloured hair was up-pinned to save it getting wet.

  The bathwater was icy cold, indicating the woman had been in the bath for several hours, presuming the water was warm when she got in. There were no obvious sign of foul play. She had not been strangled, shot, stabbed or bludgeoned to death. An empty glass bottle, round in shape, measuring three to four fluid ounces, lay on the floor of the bathroom in a shallow puddle tinted with a trace of reddish fluid that had dribbled from the neck of the bottle. Not blood. Tincture of opium. Otherwise known as laudanum.

  “Suicide?” she guessed, noting that even if the bottle had been only a quarter full it would have been sufficient to cause death; death being so quick the body would have still been warm for some time afterwards.

  “Yes,” said Mycroft.

  “Who is she?”

  “Princess Paraskovia.”

  “The wife of Prince Sergei?”

  “Estranged wife.”

  “Isn’t he the new Russian ambassador?”

  “Yes, the prince and princess recently agreed to a mutual separation. He couldn’t very well move out of the official Russian residence so she agreed to move instead. A large hotel was out of the question; too many tongues wagging in the foyer. She took the topmost floor of Clarges. She’s been resident here for a week.”

  “Who found the body?”

  “Her lady’s maid.”

  “Who ran the bath?”

  “I presume it was the same maid. Why do you ask?”

  “There are no flowers petals or scented suds. A lady’s maid would have scented the bath water with perfumed unguents and rose petals. Either the princess took this bath in a hurry or someone else ran the bath for her but not her lady’s maid.”

  Mycroft appeared uncharacteristically anxious as he glanced back at the claw-foot bath. “Is there anything else that looks out of place?”

  She realized now why she had been summoned. She circled the bath and studied the dead woman with greater deliberation. “The princess is wearing her pearl and diamond choker and all her rings. It is unusual for her not to have removed her jewellery before getting into the bath. The jewels look far too valuable to risk immersing in bathwater, especially as this bath has been plumbed. The risk of losing a valuable jewel down the plug-hole is not a risk most women would take. And the claws holding the jewels in place might catch on the sea sponge, which I notice is resting on a table by the vanity basin with the rose petals and bath oils; not within easy reach of the bath. Who else apart from the lady’s maid has seen the body?”

  “Mr Fisk-Manders, the owner of the hotel. The maid summoned him at once and he came immediately to check if his exalted foreign guest was indeed dead. He is a man of immense discretion. He understood the delicacy of the situation regarding the estranged husband. He also understood the likely brouhaha if he called Scotland Yard. He contacted the Home Office who contacted me. You are the fourth person to see the body.”

  “Fifth,” she corrected, “you forgot your aide de camp.”

  “Nash hasn’t seen it yet. Which reminds me - I want to have a quick word with him about tonight. See if you can spot anything else that strikes you as odd. Try not to move anything. The Yard will have to be contacted and they don’t take kindly to having a murder scene tampered with.”

  Murder scene? His thoughts had already shifted from suicide to murder. Hers had too. There was something about the gentle and lovely aspect of the jewelled body that recalled sleeping beauty. The round bottle of laudanum had apparently dropped from her dead hand and yet it had not rolled from the spot where it had apparently landed with a clunk, as indicated by the reddish stain which must have dribbled from the neck of the bottle. Either the bottle had miraculously landed and stayed put, or someone had carefully placed it there after death.

  Floating in the bathwater was something brightly coloured which caught the Countess’s eye. She rolled up her silk sleeve as far as it would go and carefully fished it out.

  Mycroft returned a few moments later. “Notice anything else?”

  She held out the palm of her hand, still dripping wet. “This.”

  Bushy brows registered surprise as he peered through his lorgnette. “A child’s toy?”

  “A Matryoshka doll.”

  “In the bath?”

  “Yes - underneath her legs. It’s also called a nesting doll.” She opened it up to demonstrate. “One doll fits neatly inside the other as they shrink in size. There are four dolls altogether. They have been created for this year’s Paris Fair. They have not yet gone on sale. It would be impossible to acquire one in the shops. The princess may have been given some in advance of the Fair to offer as gifts to her friends and to curry favour with Russia’s allies. Wait! There should be a fifth doll.”

  The Countess turned back to the bath and fished around a bit more and finally located the tiny object, not much larger than an acorn.

  “Here it is. It was wedged between her legs; pushed gently into the vulva to be precise.”

  Mycroft turned bright red. “Good God!”

  Several interesting scenarios ran through the Countess’s head; she settled on the most obvious and least sordid. “Did Princess Paraskovia have a lover?”

  His face went from red to white as if someone had pulled a plug on him and all the blood had drained out. “There were several rumours she had left her husband for another man.”

  “Does the man have a name?”

  Mycroft mopped his pallid brow which was showing signs of stress in the form of beads of sweat. “Several names were hinted at but it was all very hush-hush. You cannot repeat these four names outside this room: Viscount Cazenove.
Sir James Damery. General de Merville. The Prince of Wales.”

  The Countess studied the smallest doll before placing it into the heart of the nesting dolls and closing them up. “I think we can assume the princess was with child.”

  Mycroft appeared to sway. The news clearly rocked him. He looked slightly seasick as he removed himself from the bathroom and went to stare blankly at the rumpled bed which had recently been occupied not by one person but two, evidenced by the twin duck-feather pillows with indentations and the blankets being thrown back on both sides. A poor sleeper might toss from pillow to pillow but a person could only ever get out of one side of the bed.

  Mycroft paced the foot of the bed, clearly agitated. “Heaven help us if the heir to the throne is implicated in fathering a child to the wife of the Russian ambassador. Relations have only just resumed civility since the end of that wretched Crimean War.”

  The Countess moved to the Chippendale dressing table set in a small bay window screened with lace curtains. She placed the Matryoshka doll next to the tortoise shell hair brushes then began to check the drawers, hoping the contents might reveal something of interest.

  “I presume you have searched for love letters or a diary?”

  He nodded weakly.

  “No jewellery missing?”

  “I’m afraid we can rule out burglary,” he said bleakly.

  She glanced at the Matryoshka doll and recalled the four illustrious names; particularly the one Mycroft had saved for last. “Hmm, heaven help England if the heir to the throne murdered, or ordered to be murdered, a member of a royal Russian house because she was carrying his bastard. I think the post mortem will reveal she was in the first trimester.”

  Mycroft swallowed hard. “In that case, there won’t be a post mortem.”

  A sharp rap on the door caused Mycroft to swivel. When the door opened and Major Nash’s handsome blond head appeared in the gap, Mycroft was ready to bite it off.

  “I gave strict instructions not to be disturbed, Nash.”