The Curse Of The Diogenes Club

by Anna Lord

  “The Russian ambassador is in the hall, sir. He would like a word with you on a matter of some urgency.”

  Major Nash still hadn’t been informed as to what was going on and his puzzlement was evident, but he intuited it was something of national importance and acted accordingly.

  Quickly Mycroft indicated for the Countess to hide herself in the bathroom. There was a folding screen which would provide cover but allow her to listen in on the conversation.

  “Show him in, Nash, and then stand guard and stay alert. I don’t want anyone else visiting the third floor. Is that clear?”

  Suavity personified, Prince Sergei sauntered in looking dangerously dignified, casually smoking a black Russian cigarette with the air of a debonair aristocrat at his leisure. The face could have belonged to a man in his forties, the body to a man in his fifties, but the silver sweep of hair indicated a man closer to sixty. Here was a well-preserved royal who clearly shared a bloodline with Tsar Nicholas and had adopted similar grooming habits, apparent in the tidy moustache and neatly trimmed beard.

  “How do you do, Mr Holmes,” he greeted with a clipped Russian accent and a slight bow of his head.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Prince Malamtov. How may I help you?”

  “It is how I may help you, Mr Holmes.” Prince Sergei continued to saunter around the room, apparently in search of an ashtray. Not finding anything suitable, he used a vase of hyacinths on the dressing table instead.

  “In what way?” Mycroft was wondering how much the prince knew when the question was answered for him.

  “It has come to my attention that my wife was found dead this morning in her bath.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “What does it matter? I know - that is all that matters. Why else would I be here?”

  “You don’t sound very concerned for your wife.”

  “I ceased being concerned for the princess when she moved out of our marital home and into this…this place.” His eyes roved around the bedroom with visible contempt, lingering on the rumpled bed with undisguised disgust.

  “I repeat, how may I help you?”

  “And I repeat – it is how I may help you. You will not yet be aware of the fact – but my wife was with child. The child she was carrying was not mine. We have not had conjugal relations for three years. The father of her child was the Prince of Wales. This information could be very damaging to our respective governments. I will leave it with you to handle the information as you see fit from this point on. I have been informed you can be relied upon to do the right thing.”

  “Are you saying Scotland Yard should bring in a finding of suicide?”

  “I am saying I leave it in your capable hands, Mr Holmes.” Prince Sergei dropped his spent cigarette into a vase of pink tulips and gave a confident click of his boot heels. His departure was as cavalier as his arrival. The visit raised more questions than it answered.

  How did the prince know his wife was dead?

  It was either Mr Fisk-Manders or the maid. Most likely the maid. Russians often bribed servants to spy on members of their own family. Spying was a national pastime.

  That would also explain how he was privy to the death in record time. Mycroft had only learned of it an hour ago and the Countess only in the last fifteen minutes.

  The death had been staged to look like suicide, so suicide would be the official version. Heaven help them if Prince Sergei was right and the heir to the throne was having an extra-marital affair with Princess Paraskovia. Bertie was notorious for his philandering ways, especially with married women, but they were generally English or Scottish. Their husbands knew how to play the game. If a husband became aggrieved and insisted on a divorce a co-respondent could usually be found to step up to cover for the prince. But Russians were a different kettle of fish altogether. It was a matter of honour with them that often resulted in a duel to the death. Heaven help them if Prince Sergei challenged Bertie to a duel. Heaven help them if Bertie accepted.

  The Countess waited until she heard the slam of the door then counted to ten just to make sure.

  “Strange,” she mused, “but Prince Sergei didn’t ask to see his wife.”

  “He’s a cold fish. They don’t call him The Silver Sturgeon for nothing. Are you acquainted with the prince?”

  “I met him when he visited the estate of my late step-father in Odessa. He stayed for about a month but I don’t think you could call it an acquaintanceship. I was but a child, no more than five.”

  “And the princess?”

  “We never met. I believe she was born in Belgrade to minor nobility. She was considered a great beauty and soon gravitated to the court of St Petersburg where she quickly caught the eye of the prince whose first wife died in childbirth. Where are the nesting dolls?”

  “Didn’t you leave them on the dressing table?”

  “Yes, but they’re not here.”

  Mycroft blasphemed under his breath then bellowed, “Nash!”

  Feet could be heard running quickly along the corridor. The Major poked his head in the door a moment later. “Yes?”

  “Stop Prince Sergei before he gets to his carriage.”

  The Countess had moved to the window to peer through the lace curtains. “Too late. He’s getting into his carriage as we speak.”

  “Dammit!” blasted Mycroft. “Never mind, Nash – as you were.”

  The door closed and Mycroft went back into the bathroom to look once more at the dead body, as if hoping it might all be a bad dream and the princess might wake up at any moment. He seemed, dare she say it, lacking his usual composure. The Countess wondered if Princess Paraskovia meant more to the civil servant than he cared to admit. Or was it the Russian prince who tested Mycroft’s equanimity? Something had definitely got under his skin.

  Why was he treating this death with such sensitivity? It seemed more than just a matter of delicate diplomacy. It was as if he was taking it personally.

  He was gazing strangely at the lifeless face, a far-away look in his eyes. “Can I ask you to please check the body one more time? I will wait in the other room. I don’t know what I expect you to find.”

  Obligingly, the Countess checked the corpse thoroughly to see if anything else might be lodged in any orifices. She then checked the up-pinned hair and felt something odd. Carefully, she extracted a handful of curious bits from amongst the up-pinned bunch of honeyed curls. Mycroft was sitting on the bed waiting for her to emerge.

  “Find anything?”

  “Yes.” She showed him a handful of white, mottled, leprous peelings.

  “What on earth is it?”

  “Bits of birch bark.”

  “Birch bark!”

  “Slavs believe that the souls of the dead inhabit birch trees.”

  “Are you saying the death of Princess Paraskovia was some sort of religious ritual?”

  “No, I’m saying whoever killed her wanted her soul to go to a sacred place.”

  “You mean whoever killed her actually cared about her?”

  “Yes, the killer must have cared deeply.”

  Mycroft processed this latest bit of information in stunned silence while the Countess wrapped the peelings carefully in one of the princess’s own monogrammed linen handkerchiefs.

  “I understand now why Prince Sergei did not ask to see the body of his wife,” she said.

  Mycroft seemed to force himself back from some dark place when she placed the handkerchief with the embroidered ‘P’ into his limp hand. “I’m sorry - you understand what?”

  “Prince Sergei didn’t ask to see the body of his wife because he had already seen it.”

  Mycroft forgot himself. “Bloody hell! Are you saying he killed his own wife?”

  “Yes, and I think he dropped the name of the Prince of Wales in order to put the wind up you.”

  “Well, it worked,” admitted Mycroft without even apologizing for the expletive.

  “I’ve just had another thought,” she said gravely.
“I think he dropped the royal name not merely to circumvent you linking him to the death, but to let you know that if you ever attempted to accuse him he would counter the accusation by incriminating the heir to the throne.”

  Mycroft stared ruefully at the handkerchief. “In other words, he doesn’t really believe the Prince of Wales is responsible for the death of the princess but he will say so knowing that such an accusation would be impossible to deny.”

  “Yes, something along that line.”

  “Suicide it is, then.”

  “Was Princess Paraskovia invited to Bertie’s New Year’s Eve costume ball?”

  “Yes – her invitation is on the mantelpiece with a string of others. Why do you ask?”

  “Her absence will be noted. That means you will not be able to keep her death a secret for very long. Prince Sergei will have a captive audience should he wish to put about any rumours. Will you be going to the ball?”

  “I was going to send Nash in my place to keep an eye on things. I hate these costume galas. But it seems I will need to make a personal appearance after all. If any rumours start up I may need to nip them in the bud.”

  “If I need to find you quickly, what costume will you be wearing?”

  “Sir Walter Raleigh.”

  Royal servant, courtier, spy – what else! “Do you have a pearl earring?”

  He rubbed his ear and winced. “Not anymore. I turned it into a tie pin.”

  “I’ll send one around to the Diogenes Club. It clips on. Your outfit will not be complete without it.”

  He decided not to argue; his mind was elsewhere. “What costume have you chosen?”

  “The Snow Queen – lots of white fur and diamantiferous sparkle topped off with a splendid pearl and diamond kokoshnik. I’m arriving by troika, but it will have hidden wheels because there isn’t any snow. What costume will Major Nash be wearing?”

  “He usually goes to these sorts of childish dress-ups as the fictional Horatio Hornblower. The man looks ridiculously dapper in naval uniform.”

  “Major Nash would look dapper in any uniform,” she quipped without thinking.

  Mycroft looked up quickly. “Are you setting your sights on the dashing baronet?”

  “I am not setting my sights on anyone, Uncle Mycroft. I enjoy being my own mistress. But that doesn’t mean I am immune to a man in uniform. I think the ball should prove to be more exciting than I had anticipated. Are we done here? Can Major Nash summon a cab to take me back to Brown’s Hotel? I just remembered I left my carriage there.”

  “Nash can take you in my carriage. I’m going to stay here for a while longer. Close the door on your way out. I need time to think.”

  She reached the door then paused. “Where’s the princess’s costume?’

  “In the adjoining dressing room. Why?”

  “Do you mind if I steal it?”

  Avuncular disapproval was evident in the stern rejoinder. “You already have a costume.”

  “Yes, but my Ukrainian maid can wear the princess’s costume and mingle incognito with the illustrious guests. I think an extra pair of eyes and ears tonight might come in handy.”

  “In that case, take the invitation as well.”

  2

  The Pavilion

  “I believe the most eligible widow in England has just been supplanted, gentlemen.”

  General de Merville was enjoying a Macanudo cigar with Sir James Damery and Mr Bruce Blague, the wealthy American cigar tycoon, when a troika drawn by three white stallions arrived at the orientalist pavilion in Battersea Park.

  The stately pleasure dome that ‘Kublai Khan’ decreed for New Year’s Eve was a perfect replica of the Brighton Pavilion on the exterior, however, the interior had shrunk significantly until all that was left was a vast ballroom and twin banqueting rooms, one at either end. These were the grandest rooms, double-storied and topped with soaring Mughal domes, five in all, the largest of which centred the middle of the ballroom. A mezzanine punctuated with box balconies ran the full perimeter of the dance floor. Dozens of glass doors on both levels faced north toward London and the River Thames.

  On the other side of this perfectly symmetrical building were a large man-made lake and a small wood. This was the entrance side, not as beautiful but beautiful enough, with a columned veranda interspersed with filigreed peacock arches designed to disguise a series of smaller windows that belonged to the latrines and cloakrooms. On the upper level were small sitting rooms for the ladies to retire to and smoking rooms for the gentlemen.

  A far pavilion in the Mughal style served as a carriage porch. From here a set of steps led to the octagonal entrance foyer dominated by a grand staircase. Further afield, separate to the main pavilion, were guardrooms for the soldiers charged with ensuring the safety of the noble guests and stables for their horses.

  As soon as New Year’s Eve was done and dusted the orientalist pavilion would be remodelled into a cricket pavilion, ditching its Mughal splendour and morphing into something quaintly English.

  A thick white Wilton carpet strewn with gold stars formed the path from the carriage porch to the front door of the foyer. It was conceived in the event of a snowfall, but snow was not expected until the middle of January. The path was lined with flaming torcheres and Praetorian Guards chosen especially for their Roman attributes.

  As carriages disgorged costumed guests the three gentlemen smoking under the shelter of the colonnaded veranda of the pavilion watched with interest.

  “I’m guessing you are referring to the Snow Queen – that vision in white?” said Mr Blague, exhaling a plume of smoke into the nithering darkness.

  “Yes - Countess Varvara Volodymyrovna.”

  “That’s a mouthful and a half!” joked Mr Blague. “And who has she supplanted?”

  “I bet it is the celebrated Spanish beauty,” volunteered Sir James Damery, the silver-tongued Irish diplomat who enjoyed enormous favour with the royal family. “Is that right de Merville?”

  “On the money, Damery, as usual!”

  The two elder statesmen were referring to Mrs Isadora Klein, a woman with the Hispanic blood of the Conquistadores in her veins, and the most eligible widow in England, having inherited the full fortune of her late German husband, the sugar king, Adolphus Klein.

  Mr Blague continued to watch the Snow Queen blaze a virginous white trail from her elaborately carved white troika to the carved white doors of the pleasure dome. “Is the Snow Queen one of those Russian royals I have heard is going to be here tonight?”

  “The Countess is Ukrainian,” supplied the immaculate Damery before turning to his slightly rumpled, old friend, who considered grooming a waste of time and a good hobby for nancy-boys who weren’t up to the rough and tumble of the battle-ground. “Are you thinking of tying the knot again, De Merville?”

  General de Merville took a querulous puff of his cigar. “Well, as you know my daughter, Violet, means the world to me and I wouldn’t want to do anything to upset the girl, but she gets on surprisingly well with the Countess. They are practically the same age. It might even do Violet’s strong-willed nature some good to have a feminine influence in the house. She has spent far too much time exclusively in the company of men since her dear mother died, and now that I have banned her from any more of those blasted suffragette meetings it has gone back to nothing but men visitors to the house.”

  “The Countess’s wealth would not go astray either,” quipped Damery, smiling broadly enough to make his Irish eyes dance and sing.

  General de Merville took no offence; he had known James Damery for years and the two men got along famously. The two old soldiers understood each other perfectly and each would have done anything for the other, including taking a bullet. “Well, there’s nothing wrong with having a wealthy wife. It beats a poor one any day.”

  The trio of men guffawed raucously as men do when there are no women about.

  Mr Bruce Blague’s tobacco farms in South Carolina, North Carolina and Georgia, a
nd his cigar factory in Florida churned out Havanas by the thousands making him richer than Croesus. He never had to think about things like wives with money. “I might have challenged you, General de Merville, for the fair hand of that Snow Queen, but I have been widowed just six months and my sweet innocent daughter, Mona, would faint clean away if I announced I was thinking of tying the knot again. Besides, Mona tells me the Countess is an unashamed know-it-all. I cannot abide women who get above themselves or try to act like men. Those suffragettes should be locked up. I blame the husbands. The unmarried ones should be horse-whipped.”

  “An uppity woman does not frighten me,” said General de Merville heartily, sucking on his aromatic stub. “I enjoy a good battle. It makes victory all the sweeter. Ah, here comes the inimitable Mrs Isadora Klein. I would love to be present when she meets the Countess for the first time.”

  Sir James Damery gave a low whistle of masculine approval. “Another uppity woman, Mr Blague. I will introduce you later. Mrs Klein can be very intimidating, and I see she has dressed as a Valkyrie tonight, possibly in honour of her late husband. You might need back-up.”

  “She looks like a female warrior all right, but we deal differently with uppity women where I come from, gentlemen. We do not encourage them.”

  “How so?” asked Damery.

  “We marry them off to blackguards who horse-whip them every time they step out of line, men with little sympathy for uppity opinions, men with stamina when it comes to conjugal rights. Demure and compliant is how we like our women.”

  “Indeed,” said Damery, adopting an ironic inflection the American failed to pick up on. “Hopefully your dear sweet innocent daughter will steer clear of such a husband, being demure and compliant by nature, I mean. How is Miss Blague? I did not see her arrive with you. Is she coming separately in her own carriage?”

  Glowering darkly, Mr Blague threw his stub to the ground and stomped it viciously. “She is bereft, gentlemen, crying her dear sweet innocent eyes out. She refuses to get out of bed and will not be attending the costume ball though her costume cost me a king’s ransom and I bought a brand new diamond tiara this very morning from Old Bond Street to try and coax the poor girl out of bed.”