by Anna Lord
She stopped twirling the hat pin. “Trezyb.”
“Ah, Neptune’s trident – the national symbol for Ukraine.”
“Trident is one theory. It might also be a stylized image of Pershoboh, the winged god of the ancient people of the Eurasian Steppe, or a stylized gryphon, a name attributed to Ukrainians in ancient times, or a stylized bridle and spurs to signify where horses were first domesticated, or a holy triptych of flames, or an abbreviated word: VOLYA, meaning willpower, freedom.”
“Quite a choice! What’s this?” He picked up the birchbark book mark and noted the cut-out hearts with an unamused roll of eyes. “It seems I’m the only one who didn’t know it was your birthday this weekend. I didn’t prepare a gift in advance. You might have to settle for me visiting your bed tonight to demonstrate the mechanics of things I’ve mastered.”
“You better come early,” she parried tongue in cheek to make light of his glib threat, “it might get crowded.”
“If you’re expecting the colonel you will soon discover he’ll be otherwise engaged fending off Miss Blague. I told her the colonel had a large castle in Ireland and that he was the rightful king of the Irish and that as soon as Queen Victoria dies he’ll be crowned.”
“No one would ever be stupid enough to believe such a fairy tale.”
“She did.”
As soon as Major Nash left to check on his guests, Xenia entered. She had been patiently waiting in the dressing room. The Countess wanted to confirm once more what her maid saw in the carriage park on the night of the ball.
“Tell me again,” she said, “while you re-do my hair with some jewelled pins.”
“I look for troika. It is there. I see man running – he is not servant or soldier or rich man. He goes into carriage and sits. I know not which one. Two men come, but not coachman, they go into carriage and there is much shaking.”
“Wait! What two men?”
“Two men who stand on back of carriage when it goes.”
“Oh, like two livered footmen?’
“Yes, yes, they have nice uniform like Tsar’s men.”
“That was definitely the carriage of Mrs Klein. She arrived here with two liveried footmen standing on the backboard. Was the curtain open or closed?”
Xenia brushed the long chestnut mane of her mistress while she pondered the question. “Open at first and then when two men go in it is closed.”
“You’re sure of this?”
“Yes. I see man sitting alone but when there is shaking I not see what is happening because curtain it is closed.”
“Go on.”
“I see prince in his carriage. He is sitting alone. Curtains open. Later when I come back to check again for troika curtain is closed.”
“You went twice to the carriage park?”
“Yes, two times I look for troika.”
“The first time you went you saw the prince in his carriage but the second time his curtains were closed and you couldn’t tell if he was there or not?”
Xenia nodded.
“When you went the first time the fireworks were going?”
“Yes.”
“When you went back the second time the fireworks had finished?”
“Yes, finished.”
“Most of the carriages had gone by then?’
“Yes, not much left.”
“The carriage that had the man in it, was it still there?”
“Yes, it is standing next to carriage of Russian prince.”
“Think carefully. Were the curtains closed in both carriages?”
“Yes, both closed.”
“Excellent! Excellent! Now, think back to when you were inside the pavilion. Did you see the woman dressed like a warrior queen go up the stairs to the room at the top on the other side to where the colonel went?”
Xenia nodded. “Yes, she hurries much up the stairs and then comes down straight away.”
Damn! That confirmed that Mrs Klein did go up to the wrong dome room.
“Did you see what she did after that?”
“Yes she get her cloak and goes outside.”
Damn! Mrs Klein was telling the truth.
“Now, this is important. Did you see the folding camera on the table in the foyer?”
“Yes, camera on table. Man comes down stairs and he put camera in cupboard under stairs.”
“Which man?”
“Man I not see all night. He is not dressed fancy. He is small, with neck like chicken.”
That had to be the studio photographer, Mr Aubrey Ambrose. He was a puny little thing. Once again, Mrs Klein had been telling the truth. The studio photographer removed the camera. That put him in the clear for setting the bombs. And it was possibly the reason he was strangled. He would have been able to point the finger at the roaming photographer and he would have been able to identify him too. If he had the calling card of Mr Trotter in his office it meant they had met at some stage, possibly prior to the ball. But who returned to the pavilion to strangle Mr Aubrey Ambrose?
“Did you see anyone come back inside the pavilion while the injured were being carried out and everyone was on the lawn?”
“There is much coming and going. Many people in and out.”
“Did Prince Sergei return?”
Xenia shook her head. “I not see him.”
“What about General de Merville or Sir Damery, the two men who are here this weekend?”
Xenia shook her head again. “I not see them. I see the woman go in.”
“Mrs Klein?”
“Yes, she goes to lady room.”
“Did you see when she came out?”
“No, I wait for you there but then I go to help with bandages.”
A knock at the door curtailed the conversation. It was Miss de Merville.
Violet de Merville was usually described in the poetic terms reserved for the idealized female subjects of Reynolds or Gainsborough – calm, assured, graceful, transcending common beauty - but right at this minute it looked as if the canvas had suffered debasement. The determined general’s daughter who stood no nonsense looked like a woman on the verge of tears and for someone who prided herself on her fortitude and strength it was totally out of character.
“I’m not disturbing you, am I?” she said croakily. “I mean, you’re not getting changed for dinner already?”
“Not at all. Xenia was just finishing my hair.” She waved Xenia away and put in the last few pins herself. “Sit down and tell me how your dear papa is going. I heard he wasn’t well.”
Miss de Merville took a deep breath to steady her voice. “I don’t understand what’s happened to him. He never drinks too much. He despises dipsomaniacs. But the other night he came home from the Diogenes Club and he was drunk and now again today. It’s not like him. He’s been having terrible dreams too. He frequently calls out in his sleep and he’s never done that before either.”
“He probably has a lot on his mind. I’m sure he will soon be back to normal.”
“That’s what I keep telling myself but I don’t really believe it. Not anymore.”
“New Year’s Eve probably unnerved him. Prince Sergei told me men who have experienced war can be frightened of fireworks.”
“Yes, yes, it started after New Year’s Eve. I think the bombs unnerved him. Dr Watson said terrible memories can come flooding back to a man who has experienced the horrors of the battlefield. And while I was sitting with him just now he kept mumbling strange things in his sleep about the third bomb. I’m ashamed to say I was frightened.”
“We all feel frightened when our loved ones are unwell.”
“I feel guilty too. He didn’t want to come to Kent. He was worried about something. I forced him to come. I’m vain and selfish and a terrible daughter.”
“Don’t punish yourself. I think this weekend has helped him to relax. He enjoyed the charades. That’s the first time I’ve ever heard him belly laugh. He’s among friends. A good night’s sleep and he’ll wake refreshed.”
>
“But that’s just it. He won’t have a good night’s sleep. He keeps raving about the Oracle at Delphi and a man with a lamp. Something awful is preying on his mind. Or else he’s going mad. I’m worried sick about him.”
“Lots of people talk in their sleep. It’s not a form of madness. It’s dreaming out loud. That’s all.”
“I wish I could believe that. I’m not coming to dinner. That’s what I came to tell you. Please make my apologies to Major Nash. I’m going to sit with papa.”
“Nonsense, you need company. You’re all wound up and being on your own will only make it worse. I’m half-dressed already. I’ll slip into my robe de diner and sit with him while you get ready and then my manservant can take over. Your papa would be upset if he knew you were worrying for nothing. Trust me, he’ll be fine.”
The Countess dressed quickly in an evening gown of ivory silk with an overlay of black Chantilly lace cinched with a high-waisted, black silk sash. It featured lace sleeves and a modest train. The gown had been especially designed for showing off a stunning choker of diamonds in the shape of ribbons and bows from which cascaded garlands of pearls.
While she sat with the general she could see why Violet was worried sick. He kept repeating things over and over like a demented madman: Looking for an honest dog; the doll is under the stairs; the oracle is over a barrel; third bomb, third bomb; the earl-king is dead; long live the prince; Machiavelli is mad; get out of my shadow; step away from the sun; the princess is in Delphi now...
When Fedir – who’d slept on and off all day on the understanding he would need to stay alert during the night - came to take her place she was greatly relieved.
Colonel Moriarty caught her at the top of the stairs and pulled her swiftly into his room while no one was looking. “I haven’t seen you since lunch. What were you doing in de Merville’s room?”
“He’s had too much to drink and it’s upset Violet. I promised to sit with him while she dressed for dinner. Have you thought about what I said?”
“Which part?”
“The part about making sure Mycroft doesn’t meet with a fatal accident this weekend. If something is going to happen it will happen tonight.”
He managed to stay looking serious. “I thought I might keep an eye on him from your bedroom since you have connecting rooms.”
“You need to come up with an alternative plan,” she said coldly. “What have you been doing? Your shirt is untucked and your waistcoat has three buttons undone. Or should I not ask to save you having to lie to me?”
“No lies, then,” he said brusquely as he shrugged off his waistcoat and shed his shirt while she listened. “I’ve been fighting off Miss Mona Blague. She’s not as naïve as she looks. For some reason she has got it into her head that I’m a better catch than a baronet. That’s another reason I need to hide in your bedroom. I’m scared she’s going to pay me a visit in the night.”
The top half of a naked man was designed for ogling, the bottom half merely for thrusting. He knew full well the effect his broad chest and powerful back ripped with muscle would have on her, but she had never been naïve and was not about to start now just because the sight of him stirred dormant feminine juices.
“Poor you – you could end up rich and happy, but then again you’ll probably just sabotage yourself as usual. Miss Moneybags is your problem. Bear in mind, if anything bad happens to Mycroft and I think you’re responsible I’ll pay you a visit in the night and put a bullet in your thick skull.”
He liked the first half of that threat but he wasn’t sure about the second. He wanted to tell her he had actually been charged with protecting Mycroft but he had promised Nash they would keep his mission to themselves. Not knowing who the assassin was or where the next attack might come from meant it was best if no one but Nash knew why he had really come to Longchamps. Experience had taught him that it was easy to betray the best laid plan by a single gesture or a wayward flick of eyes. A clever opponent was always attuned to the unconscious language of the body.
And then there was the added complication of Major Inigo Nash. Was Nash as loyal as he appeared or was he more ambitious than he made out? He had been ingratiating himself with de Merville, Damery, Blague and even the Russian ambassador all day. Showing off his new hammerless Purdeys in the gun room. Inviting the men to sample the new batch of whiskey in the cellar. Letting Blague win at snooker. Nash hadn’t lost a game of snooker in twenty years.
What game was he really playing? What were the stakes? What was the prize?
More importantly, had Nash set him up to take the blame?
The Countess left Moriarty’s bedroom but she did not go immediately down to the great hall. She went back to her room for her muff pistol. While she was checking to make sure it was loaded with flint, she heard a barely-there noise in the adjoining room that surprised her because she knew Mycroft was still playing chess with Damery. She opened the door a fraction and was intrigued to find Major Nash checking the drawer of the bedside table.
It was perfectly appropriate for an ADC to be looking inside the bedside cabinet of the man he was employed to aid but there was something furtive about his stance. He had his back to her, so it was impossible to see what he might be doing but when she opened the door still further and he heard the sound, he swung round sharply and the look on his face told her that what he was doing was suspect.
“What are you doing with that?” He indicated the muff pistol in her hand.
“I’m making sure it’s loaded.” She lifted her skirt and tucked the small neat gun into a frilled garter that sat just above her knee. Since her evening gown lacked pockets it was the only convenient place to store a pistol but it had the added advantage of distracting him.
He watched her smooth down her Chantilly lace gown while discretely closing the drawer. “Just make sure you don’t shoot yourself in the foot.”
The bedside table had three drawers and she noted that his interest had been directed to the middle one. “Major Nash, you know as well as I do that even if I were to tumble down the stairs the sliding bracket which surrounds the hammer ends in a pin which prevents the frizzen from opening and discharging accidentally. Mr Derringer was very careful about making sure his design would not go off even when half-cocked. The drop-down trigger is foolproof. What use is a pocket pistol that discharges inside a pocket?”
“Indeed,” he said with a poker face. “Were you looking for Mycroft?”
“Yes, it’s time for him to dress for dinner and he always needs help with his neck tie.” She said that deliberately to goad him – he would start thinking: how would you know that if you weren’t married to him? Time to goad him some more. “Your neck tie needs a little tweak too.”
She stepped up and pretended to straighten it. “There, that’s better.”
He waited for her to finish brushing up against him, and his restraint was masterful. “Finished?”
“Yes,” she said, smiling sweetly, before feigning ignorance. “Do you know where Mycroft is at present?”
“He’s with Damery. Do you want me to send him upstairs to get dressed?”
“Yes.”
He turned to go then turned back. “By the way, it’s a Webley.”
“What?”
“My neck tie was fine. I saw it in the mirror before you straightened it, so next time you want to check if I’m packing a pistol you should try asking me, though rubbing up against me and toying with my neck tie will not go unappreciated.”
She would have blushed but the guilty never blushed. Blushing was reserved for the innocent who felt guilty on behalf of others.
This time he got all the way to the door. “What were you doing in the colonel’s room just now and don’t tell me you were straightening his neck tie?”
17
Musical Beds
Countess Volodymyrovna’s brain whirred. Was the assassin really Colonel Moriarty or was that too obvious? Was the danger to Mycroft closer to home? Why did Major Nas
h really want to invite everyone down to Longchamps?
Handsomer than any man had a right to be, he had no doubt grown immune to feminine advances. Women had probably been googly-eyed about him since he first opened his baby blue eyes and burped. No wonder he had seen through her infantile play-acting more than once. It was time to lift her game…and put the spotlight on the man whose name was Moriarty.
“He wasn’t wearing a neck tie. In fact, he wasn’t wearing much at all. I was reminding him that if anything bad happened to Mycroft I would visit his room in the night and shoot him.”
Major Nash waited until he was on the other side of the door then gave one of those roaring laughs that echo up to the rafters.
Plan number one: Let Major Nash think she suspected Moriarty.
Though the more she thought about it the less likely it seemed that Moriarty was here to assassinate Mycroft. It was too clumsy. If Moriarty wanted Mycroft dead he would already be stone cold; he wouldn’t have stepped off that milk train.
When Sherlock drew Colonel Moriarty into their group on the night of the ball she had assumed it might be to expose him, to bring him out into the open, or perhaps to lull him into a false sense of security, never did she think it might be because he trusted the Irishman, the brother of his arch enemy, above the loyal ADC.
She wanted to check the drawer but that’s what Major Nash would expect her to do. He might even double-back on some pretence and catch her at it. She went to de Merville’s bedroom instead. Miss de Merville and Fedir were both there. She instructed her manservant in Ukrainian to go and help Mycroft dress for dinner, then she explained about the middle drawer of the bedside table, telling him to let her know when the room was vacant, and to note if Mycroft went to the bedside cabinet to withdraw anything.
Major Nash came back up the stairs and escorted the two ladies downstairs to the great hall where he fixed them with a flute of French champagne. Miss Blague, looking youthful and flirtatious, was there ahead of them, sipping stars already. It was time to put plan number two into action. It was time to free up Colonel Moriarty and put Major Nash squarely in the frame; it was time to restrict his movement; it was time to force him to watch his back all night long.
