The Curse of the Singing Wolf Page 4

  His voice was imbued with a soft Irish lilt, playful and ironic. There was nothing harsh or discordant in the tone, nothing dangerous or menacing behind his words. He had milky blue eyes, like translucent glass with a drop of summer sky in them. His head was bald. Now, there are some women who do not like bald men, but the Countess was not one of them. A bald head reminded her of other appendages that stimulated feminine imagination. He was not exactly handsome but what he lacked in looks he made up in personal presence. And in men that counted for more.

  He introduced himself and she pretended she hadn’t heard the name before. He played along, though she got the impression he didn’t believe it for a moment. He did not attempt to flirt with her – that’s probably why he felt like a childhood friend. Friends understood each other. They did not play emotional games. Their rapport was natural and comfortable and devoid of artifice. Within a few minutes of meeting he had discovered several crucial things: her name, the fact she had been married for three years to an Australian, that fact she was independently wealthy, that she had just recently returned to the continent, that she was raised in Ukraine, the step-daughter of the Count of Odessos, had travelled most of the world with her step-aunt, Countess Zoya Volodymyrovna, and that she was fiercely intelligent.

  They sat on a garden bench out of the wind, though the walled garden was fairly sheltered already. She learned he was born the youngest of three brothers. The other two were dead. He hailed from an impoverished Irish family whose wealth was being restored after decades of destitute penury. He was currently restoring his mother’s family seat, Ballyfolly Castle, which had been nothing but a ruin for several generations. He made her promise if she was ever in Ireland to make a visit. He was fiercely proud.

  “Isambard is an unusual choice of name for an Irishman,” she observed.

  “We are an unusual Irish family,” he parried lightly. “All three brothers were christened James. James Hieronymous Moriarty. James Vercengetorix Moriarty. James Isambard Moriarty. Our pater believed it would force us to toughen up.”

  “And did it?”

  “To be sure!” he laughed loud and long. “We stood up to the bullies and my two siblings excelled at their lessons, particularly in spelling. My eldest brother was a mathematical genius, my second was a great musician and composer able to harness the musical spheres, as for me, well, modesty forbids me to sing my own praises. What sort of man would I be if I boasted of my achievements upon our first meeting?”

  She had been prepared to dislike him intensely. His eldest brother had been her father’s arch nemesis, responsible for hounding him to his death in Switzerland. She had warned herself against finding anything good in him. But the inescapable fact was he was surprisingly easy to like. He came across as so honest and sincere she believed that if she asked him point blank about the death of Sherlock he would probably tell her exactly what had happened and why. But she bit her tongue.

  The Singing Wolf appeared briefly on her balcony. She was once again wearing a black peignoir, a diaphanous garment that conjured up a magical vision in the pearly light of morning.

  Prince Orczy affected a mock salute in their direction as he hurried down the steps that led to the gated pillars. His undue haste told them he was probably on his way to the same baccarat table he had been forced to retire from prematurely the previous evening.

  More languidly, the other two male guests emerged from the dining room and found a pocket of sunshine on the slate-paved terrace where they sat down to enjoy a leisurely cigarette.

  “Shall we make one more circuit of the garden before we join Baron Reichenbach and Herr von Gunn?” suggested Colonel Moriarty, gallantly offering his arm.

  They walked arm in arm without speaking and were coming round the cherub fountain when palls of black smoke began billowing from the little windows of the sous-sol that provided ventilation and light to the basement of the hotel.

  “Stay here,” he said urgently, releasing her arm and patting her hand reassuringly. “I fear there may be a fire in the kitchens.”

  And off he dashed.

  The two men on the terrace had not yet noticed the plumes of black smoke. They appeared to find his impulsive sprint amusing. But when he called: “Fire! Fire!” they understood the urgency, tossed their cigarettes into the garden bed and followed hot on his heels.

  The Countess did not heed his warning to stay put but rushed straight upstairs to her bedroom where Xenia had already started packing up her jewels, safeguarding them in fact, for they had once stayed at a hotel where a fire had broken out and in the ensuing panic several rooms had been ransacked.

  Even if the fire was genuine there was always the possibility of it spreading beyond the underground rooms. Xenia had the luggage standing by and all the essentials within reach. Fedir had fetched the trunks and portmanteaux out of the box room at the end of the hall and then raced downstairs to offer assistance.

  From her balcony window the Countess could see Dr Watson in the distance, exploring the base of the lighthouse with a handful of tourists. Someone pointed in the direction of the hotel and everyone turned to look. Alerted to the billowing funnel of black smoke, he began to hurry back across the rocks toward the footbridge that joined le phare to the mainland. It would take him at least twenty minutes to make his way back.

  The Countess instructed Xenia to hold off any packing. A maritime fortress would be bound to have thick stone walls and sturdy foundations. She doubted the fire would spread beyond the domestic rooms, and certainly not rapidly. She stepped back inside the bedroom and closed the French doors to keep out the smell of smoke and any cinders that might blow in on currents of air. Xenia remained in the bedchamber while the Countess hurried downstairs to ascertain the extent of the fire and to await the arrival of Dr Watson. He would have worked himself up into a lather, and she wanted to allay any fears before he panicked.

  The concierge had deserted his desk and the lobby boy was nowhere to be seen. She could hear loud voices and banging sounds coming from the stairwell that led down to the underground rooms. Smoke was creeping up the stairs and lingering in the foyer but not at an alarming rate. She opened the heavy front doors to allow the tendrils of smoke to vent, wedging the double doors with a pair of carved Spanish chairs, before remembering that oxygen would feed the flames below. Quickly she closed them again. As she paced the patterned brickwork, trepidation mounting despite what she’d just told herself about the sturdiness of fortresses, the heavy front doors flew open. It was Prince Orczy. He was red in the face from running.

  “What’s happening?” he gasped, panting heavily. “I had reached the boulevard and was about to climb into a fiacre when the cabbie pointed out the black clouds engulfing the hotel. He made some joke about the Apocalypse before I realized it was smoke. I ran all the way back. Where’s the fire?”

  That question was answered by the loud shouting and clatter of metal objects coming from the floor below. He turned and raced downstairs without waiting for a reply. At the same time, the Singing Wolf made an appearance. She was now dressed in black satin from head to toe, a colour that made most complexions appear sallow, but her olive skin, reminiscent of the ancient race of Mediterranean pirates who had long ago settled in this part of the world, could withstand the leeching effect. In fact, it complimented the sultry features, highlighting the black eyes and raven hair and the ruby red of her lips. She was astonishingly calm.

  “Good-morning, Countess Volodymyrovna. The fire should be under control in a minute or two. Let us remove ourselves into the sitting room and await the others. We will open a fresh bottle of amontillado in anticipation.”

  Her accented voice was warm and husky, not a trace of anxiety was attached to a single, solitary, sang-froid note. It was the first time the Singing Wolf had addressed her.

  No sooner had they opened that bottle of amontillado, took a glass for themselves, and settled into armchairs by the fireplace where a log fire crackled cheerily, than the men tramped in
with soot-blackened faces grimed with sweat. They marched straight to the sideboard and helped themselves to a drink, draining the first glass in one gulp to quench parched throats before measuring a second and then a third.

  “Well, the good news is the fire has not spread beyond the kitchens,” declared Moriarty.

  “Was anyone injured?” probed the Countess.

  “Not seriously,” replied the Baron. “The chef got a spot of soot in his eye. It is looking fearfully bloodshot and inflamed. He’s gone to have a rest in his room. Inez is making him a saline wash and preparing some cold compresses.”

  “The lobby boy scalded his hands when he placed them on a hot metal surface,” added the German, refreshing his glass. “Desi fetched a bucket of cold water for him to plunge his hands into. She is now smearing his hands with butter. He will nurse some nasty blisters for a few days but he is young, his hands will heal.”

  “All in all, we were frightfully fortunate,” commented Moriarty. “It could have been beastly bad luck if the kitchen had been fitted with one of those new-fangled gas ovens. Not a day goes by in London that one of those things does not explode.”

  “Yes, damned dangerous things,” agreed the Baron, “it’s the same in Paris. The morning papers are full of it. A family with six children in Montparnasse went to their Maker just last week.”

  “And Germany the same,” concurred Herr von Gunn. “Worse than Greek fire! No flues in most of the contraptions, gas builds up all night and then in the morning the maid strikes a lucifer and bang! The whole kitchen goes up like a burst of hygron pyr!”

  “Fearfully lucky we managed to contain the flames to one room of the kitchen,” commented Moriarty, getting back on track. “That’s the good thing about these really old places. The kitchens were compartmentalized according to tasks – dairy room, salting room, meat room, bakery room, and so forth, not like some modern kitchens with everything taking place in the one room and just a larder or scullery off the side. But I’m afraid there will be no suckling pig for dinner,” he finished on a lighter note.

  Felipe, the concierge entered, his dark eyes were red-rimmed and streaming.

  “What is it Felipe?” asked the Singing Wolf.

  “I wish to inform our guests that morning tea was set out in the dining room just prior to the fire breaking out. If the Countess’s maid could help serve the tea and coffee…”

  “Bon idée,” pronounced the Singing Wolf, before addressing her concierge. “Some cold vichysoisse and extra sandwiches, si tu plais. It will suffice for an early lunch. The hotel is closed to new guests as of now. I want a crew of workmen in as soon as possible. You will personally oversee the repairs. Spare no expense. That is all. Freshen yourself up then see to it at once.”

  The men decided to change out of their smoke-stained clothes before decamping to the dining room. Dr Watson bumped into them in the foyer as he came hurtling in and was amazed that they were unhurt and seemed in such good spirits. They briefly recounted what had happened, describing astonishing acts of courage as nothing out of the ordinary.

  The fire had started when a spark caught hold of a cloth hanging on a rail above the cooking fire where a whole pig was roasting on a spit. The burning cloth fell into a vat of oil which ignited some hot dripping in a pan. Before the chef could quell the flames the whole chimney was alight and the pig was incinerated. Anything that was flammable was consumed by leaping tongues of fire. However, the conflagration was quickly contained and it was only because of the low ceiling and dearth of windows that the acrid black smoke, which sought to vent itself through every possible aperture, made it seem far worse than it actually was.

  Dr Watson retrieved his medical bag and went to see what he could do for the chef and the lobby boy. Their injuries were minor and the curative measures already undertaken were as good as anything he could think of in the circumstances. He decided to check on Fedir in the west wing. The manservant was lying on his pallet. His eyes were smarting from the smoke but the damage was minimal. He recommended an eye wash using salt water and then bed rest for the remainder of the day. By the time he tidied himself up and arrived in the dining room the others had eaten and departed. He helped himself to some cold soup, rosbif sandwiches, drained two cups of tepid tea, and finally caught up to the Countess in her bedchamber. She was supervising the packing of her trunks, portmanteaux and hatboxes. She seemed in a frightful hurry.

  “Are you transferring to another hotel?”

  “Haven’t you heard?” she said.

  “Heard what?”

  “We have been invited to spend the rest of the week at the mountain retreat of the Singing Wolf.”

  “An odd name for a hotel: The Mountain Retreat of the Singing Wolf. I don’t believe I have ever heard of it. Is it far out of town? I was hoping to play a round of golf tomorrow.”

  “Oh, dear,” she sighed, realizing he had missed out on all the gossip relayed by the Princess Roskovsky and had probably not yet met their mysterious hostess either. “Take a seat and I will explain.”

  She decided to keep it simple so as not to confuse him, deliberately omitting details pertaining to unsubstantiated rumours regarding wealth and nationality.

  “An opera singer,” he said dubiously. “I cannot say I have heard of her. Do you think she could have been a friend of…” he paused, wondering how to phrase it and finally settled on, “Miss Adler?”

  “You mean my mother?” she said with conviction.

  “Yes, I suppose so,” he conceded, though he was still not convinced.

  “She is of similar age – about forty years plus, and she did sing with the Warsaw Opera, so it is entirely possible.”

  “I think it might be best not to mention the fact Miss Adler is…”

  “Yes, yes,” she cut off. “I have no intention of letting the cat out of the bag.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief. He was still awaiting further confirmation from Mycroft regarding where she had sprung from. Until then, they both needed to play their cards close to their chests. There was more at stake than she knew.

  “So where are we off to?” he asked with a frown, changing the subject. “A damn shame about that kitchen fire. I was looking forward to staying here. I am starting to think I might be cursed with regard to hotels.”

  “It is called Chanteloup. A day’s journey into the hinterland.”

  “A days’ journey! It’s already midday! Are we expected to trek through the Pyrenees in the pitch dark on horseback and arrive at some isolated farmhouse at midnight?”

  “Private train – overnight sleeper, individual compartments for everyone; did I forget to mention the Singing Wolf is frightfully rich?”

  Shaggy grey brows travelled north, followed by a smile.

  5

  The Pyrenees

  Within the hour everyone’s luggage was on board a private train chugging east, skirting the rugged foothills of the Pyrenees. The train had been decommissioned by the Belgians several years ago when the fashion for carriage cars became wider and longer. It had since undergone a complete refurbishment. It was painted black and gold with an elaborate SW monogram on each car. The interior was now fit for royalty with polished mahogany panelling, plush velvet upholstery, black damask curtains with gold fringing and shiny brass fittings. There were five cars including the locomotive and an observation car at the rear with a little platform like a miniature balcony with wrought iron railing which was perfect for watching the scenery whizz by while smoking a cigarette. The fifth car doubled as the sitting car. There was no dining car as such but provisions had been loaded aboard for dinner and breakfast so that they would not need to stop at any of the stations en route. A couple of quick stops to take on water and coal would keep them going with minimal interruption.

  Everything had happened at a furious pace after the Singing Wolf issued her invitation while they were lunching, making it sound like a fait accompli. None of the men had attempted to beg off and the Countess had wondered what woul
d have happened had Dr Watson been present when the announcement had been made, for that’s what it was, an announcement, a decree, a royal edict. The Countess considered declining the kind offer but then thought twice about swimming against the tide. It was as if all the events leading up to this point been had been set in motion by some force greater than the sum of all she understood to be rational and real: The mix-up with the rooms at the Hotel du Palais, the four radical men assembling here at the Hotel Louve, and the fire in the kitchen. A series of strange coincidences? Or some diabolical piece of theatre? It was at times like these that she gave herself over to unknown forces, or for want of a better term, the forces of Fate.

  Dr Watson had had no chance to meet his fellow travellers until they arrived at the bustling train station in Biarritz, and even there, because of the flurry of fiacres, the unloading of wagonettes, the hauling of luggage into different cars, and not having as many servants as they would have liked for all the tasks, that introductions were hurried – a quick nod, a brief shake of hands, a jumble of names shouted above the whistle of the train – Frederick, Gustav, James - the hiss of steam, the clatter of wooden trolleys, and the frantic call: “All aboard! All aboard! Express to Chanteloup! Train privée! Stand back! Stand back!”

  The sultry flamenco dancer, Inez, the Singing Wolf’s personal maid and occasional femme de chambre, was included in the party, as was Velazquez and Milo, the lobby boy, his hands bandaged. There was also clumsy Desi, the lumpen Negress with frizzy hair. The remainder of the staff at the Hotel Louve stayed behind to assist Felipe, who had been charged with supervising repairs and renovations. There was minimal damage from the flames but the smell of smoke had permeated most of the rooms. Everything would need to be aired, including rugs, curtains and soft furnishings.