The Curse of the Singing Wolf Page 3

  “And the other one – what did you say his name was?”

  “Frederik Reichenbach. He is Prussian and descends from a famous military family. He has the eyes to prove it – they are Prussian blue – ha-ha…quite mesmerizing – and that leonine mane of white hair is extraordinary, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Oui, he lives in Switzerland?”

  “What makes you ask that?”

  “There is a place in Switzerland called Reichenbach Falls, popular with hikers. I went there when I was at finishing school,” she lied.

  “Oh, yes, the Thunder of Reichenbach. He may have a chalet somewhere thereabouts but I believe he has a castle in Swabia or Styria or someplace starting with S. He doesn’t have the same wealth as Herr von Gunn but he has an illustrious history that goes back to Charlemagne. You could do a lot worse than become the next Baroness of S.”

  3

  A Night at the Casino

  The ominous storm that had been marshalling forces all afternoon was now making rumbling threatening noises much closer to home. Lurid flashes electrified the darkness of heaven every now and again, though the claps of thunder were delayed by several seconds, indicating that the enemy would not attack until after midnight. Nevertheless, it was a long queue for a fiacre for the short ride to the Bellevue Casino. The Princess Roskovsky was partial to a flutter on the roulette wheel which she said always reminded her of her favourite game.

  “I adore when the little wheel spins one way and the little ball goes the other way and then the tiny metallic click when the ball falls into place just like the click of the barrel before one shoots one’s brains out!”

  “Do you think the Singing Wolf will go to the casino?” asked the Countess who did not share the same fondness for roulette or the same taste for gallows’ humour. “Half these people are directing their coaches to the ballroom of the Hotel du Palais.”

  “Trust me, Countess Varvara. The Singing Wolf and her entourage will be at the casino. There she goes now!” The Princess indicated a black and gold barouche pulled by two black carriage horses.

  Of all the carriages in existence, the barouche was the most elegant: lightly sprung so that is seemed suspended on a cushion of air and sensuously curved, imbuing those who sat inside with an aura of sensuousness to match. The hood was folded down - a sign the occupants were unafraid of the god of thunder and his invincible hammer.

  “You can see the two vassals sitting vis-à-vis opposite their lady like doting minions – men are such fools for love!” tittered the old aristocrat happily, as the black and gold barouche floated past and they shuffled closer to the front of the queue. “There goes Prince Orczy in the landau with the two Mayflowers,” said the old Princess, who didn’t seem to miss a trick despite her rheumy eyes and advancing age. “They must be heading to the casino too for they are going the same way. Oh, here we are – a fiacre at last!”

  The Bellevue Casino had a rather underwhelming façade. It had borrowed something from every style since chateau construction commenced as if it couldn’t quite make up its mind what it wanted to be: Louis Quatorze, Napoleon 111, et al. It had a mansard roof, dormers, turrets, windows that were round, square, rectangular and French door.

  Prince Orczy was cutting a flaxen-haired dash at the baccarat table. Miss Mayflower and Mama Mayflower were poised awkwardly, one at each shoulder, trying desperately to look as if they were enjoying themselves but even flutes of expensive French bubbly failed to lift their sagging chins. When the Prince continued to lose at a furious pace and the pretence all got too much for the drooping dispositions of the American Puritans they made a beeline for the exit. A princely title was a coveted trophy across the Atlantic but not if it came tied to the coat tails of a profligate gambler. Fortunes larger than theirs had been squandered on matrimonial enterprises and lessons had been learned.

  “Miss Mayflower is not so dull after all,” commented the Countess with a cynical smile.

  “Hopefully, she and mama will book a passage on the first steamer ship bound for New York,” returned the Princess with a chuckle. “While they still have the means to pay for two tickets in first class and not in steerage.”

  “Prince Orczy must be losing his charm as well as his luck.”

  “Or else he has set his sights on a new demoiselle.”

  The Countess dismissed the sardonic suggestion with a good-humoured laugh. “A man would have to be exceptional for me to ever consider sacrificing my independence.”

  “Bravo, Varvaruchka, it warms an old woman’s heart to know the blood of Scythian matriarchs still flows in Slavic veins. Remind yourself of this conversation when you meet this exception. After you lose your head and he gains control of your fortune it will be too late. Now, let us make our way to the wheel of misfortune?”

  They passed through various gilded salons where the crème de la crème of Europe and America came to squander their inheritances; a spin here, a flutter there, a few hours of idle amusement, repeat ad infinitum. They entered an octagonal chamber frescoed with scenes from the Sistine chapel - the painted ceiling depicting God reaching out his hand as if to grasp the last shekel from an unwise Adam.

  The Singing Wolf was sitting regally at the roulette table. Either side of her, like loyal vassals, stood Baron Reichenbach and Herr von Gunn. She did not appear to acknowledge either man, nor did she speak to the croupier, nor to anyone around her, but remained as unapproachable as a mythic Saracen queen seated on her throne, placing her bets, always on the same number – black thirteen. There were women who were pretty, women who were beautiful and women who were stunning – the Singing Wolf was the latter, everything about her denoted style and substance, wealth and power, and that indefinable factor – mystique.

  The Countess had observed for herself early in life that a petite blonde did not need to be exceptional to be considered the highest of her sex, whereas a brunette needed to be exceptional to be considered at all. The Countess was a brunette. She was what might be deemed: attractive. The chief attribute of her attractiveness was her confidence. And despite what many a cynic might say, it was not something money could buy. It stemmed from innate self-belief, and though it included a certain amount of vanity, it had nothing to do with conceit, which was aligned to arrogance and superiority devoid of reason, like a goddess without purpose.

  The Princess Roskovsky made a great show of winning, clapping her hands and expostulating with childish glee, and just as great a show of losing, castigating the little wheel as if it had a mind of its own but lacked a Russian soul. The Singing Wolf was the opposite. Whether she won or lost, it was of no consequence. She hardly batted an eyelash whether black thirteen came up or not. The two minions standing either side kept her supplied with betting chips which she placed mechanically and unemotionally after each spin of the wheel.

  After about an hour of time had passed and the Princess had suffered a run of bad luck and the long losing streak was about to claim her last chip, she suddenly cried out excitedly, clapped her hands exuberantly, and grabbed the stack of chips the croupier piled on top of black thirteen. A frisson of fear ran around the table and breaths were drawn.

  “I believe they are mine,” said the Singing Wolf, addressing the old aristocrat.

  “Oh, no,” countered the other. “I believe you are mistaken. These chips are mine.”

  “Black thirteen is my number.”

  “You failed to place your bet in time. The croupier called: No more bets. He pushed your chip back to you.”

  “I believe it was your chip that failed to be placed in time.”

  The Princess turned to her companion for confirmation. “Countess Varvara, can you tell this lady she is mistaken. The winning chip was mine.”

  The Countess glanced from one implacable female face to the other and shook her head. “To be honest, I was not watching. Prince Orczy was having a glass of champagne thrown in his face by a lady in red and it momentarily claimed my attention.”

  The Singing Wolf loo
ked at the two minions either side of her for positive confirmation in her own favour but they cited the same lapse in concentration. Prince Orczy being splashed with champagne was a sight not to be missed.

  The manager of the casino was summoned. He took one look at the Singing Wolf, trembled a little, mopped his forehead with his handkerchief, and instructed the hapless croupier to pay both women equal winnings.

  The Singing Wolf looked down her raptor’s nose at the Princess Roskovsky. “You may keep both,” she said haughtily before sweeping out of the glittering salon, disdaining the company of her two disappointing male attendants with a cursive wave of a manicured hand. The manager trailed in her regal wake, muttering grovelling apologies. When they reached the foyer he called for her fur cloak and personally draped acres of mink over her shoulders, signalling for the doorman to summon the black and gold barouche without delay.

  Soggy and humiliated, Prince Orczy begged to be allowed to accompany the Singing Wolf back to the Hotel Louve and deferentially kissed her hand when she relented.

  The little drama left the Princess Roskovsky fatigued. She immediately announced that she too would be returning to her hotel.

  The Countess was accompanying the Princess to the cloakroom when the old lady turned to her and took hold of both her hands.

  “The night is young and something tells me you have certain fish to fry, Countess Varvara. It has been an interesting evening. The best I have had in years. No doubt we will cross paths again soon now that you have finally returned from the antipodes. A bientôt, Varvaruchka.”

  Smiling, the Countess bestowed a trio of kisses on her late aunt’s wily compatriot and prepared to return to the roulette table when Baron Reichenbach and Herr von Gunn insinuated themselves into her path, introduced themselves, and invited her to join them at a private table set in a romantic candlelit booth where a bottle of French champagne chilled in a silver ice bucket and three crystal flutes stood ready. They appeared to know her name already.

  “Prince Orczy pointed you out,” explained the Baron when she asked how they knew it. “It was an amusing stand-off just now, n’est-ce pas?” he continued cheerfully, filling three crystal flutes and handing the first to her.

  “Quite,” said the Countess.

  “I did not think either woman would back down,” added Herr von Gunn convivially. “Shall we drink a toast to the Princess Roskovsky and the Singing Wolf.”

  The raising of glasses cemented the start of their relationship.

  “Does the Singing Wolf have a name?” enquired the Countess.

  “She goes by many names,” replied the Baron. “Iolaire Dubh is my favourite.”

  “Louve D’Oc is mine,” added von Gunn.

  “Black eagle. She-wolf of Oc. They sound fantastical and invented.”

  The Prussian laughed throatily. “That’s why they suit her so well!”

  “You are staying at the Hotel Louve with a travelling companion?” stated the German, deftly changing the subject as he topped up her glass.

  “Did you get that information from Prince Orczy too?”

  “Evidement, la comtesse - I take it that your travelling companion did not choose to join you tonight?”

  “Dr John Watson, no, he is not fond of the opera.” She watched carefully for a reaction from the Baron but he did not betray himself. What’s in a name? There were possibly hundreds of Reichenbachs in the world with no connection to the place where Sherlock rumbled to his so-called death.

  The German asked how she came to choose the small hotel on the rock and while she explained about the mix-up with rooms at the Hotel du Palais she got the distinct impression her listeners seemed not only bemused but dismayed that she ended up at the Hotel Louve.

  The two men came once a year to Biarritz, always in the month of November, and always stayed at the Hotel Louve. Its location away from the main boulevards suited them. Neither man was currently married. The Prussian had been widowed seven years now. The German had been twice married and twice divorced. When the champagne had been drunk they clambered into the black and gold barouche which the Singing Wolf had dispatched for their return journey. It was a generous gesture and the sort of touch that made staying at a small hotel worthwhile.

  They beat the storm by mere minutes. No sooner had they reached their rooms than the heavens opened up. Rain flooded the smart boulevards and sent the last of the pleasure seekers scurrying for cover.

  Xenia and Fedir were waiting up for their mistress. They had rooms in the west wing and took turns keeping an eye out for the return of the barouche from the time it had been dispatched to the casino to fetch the last of the hotel’s guests.

  Just after the stroke of midnight the Countess returned to startling news. Fedir stood guard in the corridor while Xenia lowered her voice and informed her mistress that a fourth man had checked into the hotel during her absence. He apparently always came to Biarritz at this time of year and always took the same room on the second floor. It was the room just below that of the Countess. His name was Colonel James Isambard Moriarty.

  4

  Fire! Fire!

  The Countess tossed and turned, snatching sleep for short periods. She would close her eyes, drift off then find herself wide awake an hour later, staring at the painted ceiling. She put her sleeplessness down to the electrical storm, the blinding light from le phare, and the roar of the Atlantic Ocean as it crashed onto the rock, but in truth she was worried. The name Moriarty coming on top of Reichenbach was not something she could dismiss and yet there could be no connection. She and Dr Watson had checked into the Hotel Louve on the spur of the moment, almost on a whim, by pure chance. No one could have foreseen their transfer from the Hotel du Palais in advance. There were hundreds of hotels they could have gone to. And even if Dr Watson’s room mix-up was contrived, what followed was not predictable. They had come across the Hotel Louve by happenstance after becoming lost. No one had proposed it to them. There had been no power of suggestion, no hint had been dropped, no invisible hand had guided them this way and yet...

  And yet she could not help recalling the words of the Princess Roskovsky - the hotel had a certain reputation; hardly any women stayed there; the men who checked in were radical.

  What did that mean? Radical? The word haunted her sleep and plagued her waking hours. It followed her in the dark as she moved restlessly to the window to watch the storm sweep across the sky, as she tossed a log on the fire where the dying embers glowed faintly red, as she paced the elegant bedchamber and fretted about the mental health of her travelling companion. What would be his reaction when he heard the name Reichenbach? What would be his over-reaction when he heard the name Moriarty? Would he insist on catching the first ferry back to England? Would he attempt to avenge his old friend?

  Morning broke the back of the storm and the day dawned at peace with itself. The same could not be said of the Countess. Lack of sleep had her nerves stretched on tenterhooks, and though she was no coward, she could not bear the thought of an ugly scene so early in the day. She requested breakfast in bed and pondered the likelihood of a violent confrontation in the dining room. But neither Xenia nor Fedir brought tidings of anything untoward.

  “Where is Dr Watson?” she finally asked after she’d fortified herself with a cup of tea.

  Fedir informed her that Dr Watson had slept soundly and breakfasted early and was taking a walk to le phare. Xenia added that she heard him telling the concierge he had always been fascinated by lighthouses and would not return until midday and to reserve a table for lunch.

  “Is there anyone in the dining room at present?”

  “Yes,” replied Fedir. The gist of his monologue was that four men were taking their breakfast. They appeared to know each other well and seemed to be on very good terms.

  This news should have pleased the Countess but it made her feel uneasy. What could the four men have in common? What thread connected them? A penniless playboy prince, a munitions manufacturer, a Prussian w
ith military ties and an Irish colonel seemed an odd assortment? It was the last man who interested her the most. Probably because she had met the others and thus her curiosity was settled. The three she had met had come across as charming and intelligent, endowed with good humour and good manners, and restraint, yes, the Prussian and the German had handled the misunderstanding at the roulette table with admirable aplomb. As for Prince Orczy, at least he had had the good sense to leave the casino once the glass of champagne washed over him thus avoiding a heated exchange with the unknown lady in red.

  Her mind wandered. The men came every year to the Hotel Louve, always at the same time – why? What was the drawcard? Were they all fools for love? Was the Singing Wolf the thread that drew them? Did she summon all four specifically to watch them fawn and flatter, pay court, vie for her favours?

  She tried to recall what Professor Moriarty looked like. There had been an unflattering illustration in one of the chronicles penned by Dr Watson of a wild-haired, rake-thin man with a cadaverous face and mad staring eyes. The artist had captured perfectly the look of fanatical determination one associates with a cold-blooded murderer. She knew there was a younger brother. Could there also be a nephew? Or possibly a son!

  She completed her toilette and tossed up whether to catch up to Dr Watson at the lighthouse or take a turn around the courtyard garden. Lack of sleep decided for her. And that’s how she found herself face to face with the fourth guest.

  He spotted her from his balcony and acknowledged her with an inclination of his head. By the time she had completed one circuit of the cherub fountain he was by her side. He looked at her as if he knew her, as if he saw something in her features that reminded him of someone else, and the uncanny thing was that she felt as if she knew him too. They greeted each other for the first time not as strangers but more like childhood companions who have not seen each other for untold years, as if the eons that separated them were but a blink in time, as if they both just stepped out of the same page of the Irish Book of Conquests and could pick up some ancient mystical connection at will.