by Anna Lord
“I don’t want to think anything of the sort but…”
The Countess understood why Dr Watson didn’t want to finish the sentence. She had had the same misgivings concerning their handsome host; she could scarcely bring herself to believe her suspicions let alone voice them. “Did you notice when Mrs Klein left the tennys-play?”
“I didn’t notice that she had.”
“She wasn’t on the porch either. I think she and Major Nash were having another assignation. He looked dishevelled when he appeared. They appear to be very friendly all of a sudden. You don’t think…”
Sherlock finished the sentence for her when she paused, clearly unwilling to accuse Mycroft’s ADC of treachery. “…think the two of them are in it together?”
Dr Watson looked back over his shoulder again and lowered his voice. “Major Nash certainly gets around and he knows exactly where Mycroft is going to be at any given time. And didn’t you say this weekend was his idea?”
“Yes,” confirmed the Countess grimly.
“But what’s in it for him?” pursued the doctor, shaking his head dourly.
The Countess explained what she learned while butlering at the club. “Once Mycroft is out of the way de Merville becomes the new primus baro by default; no one else wants the job. I’d say it wouldn’t be long before the major was part of the influential committee of six. This weekend could have been designed to ingratiate him with de Merville, Damery and Blague, all soon to become members of the club providing the new constitution is adopted. As Mycroft’s ADC he must know everyone’s secrets. That sort of information could bring him enormous clout. In time he could bump off de Merville and be voted in as the new primus baro.”
“But how would Mrs Klein help?” asked the doctor.
“She holds sway over powerful men. Think about the Turkish Baths,” she reminded. “The right men backing the ADC might help him get on the committee sooner rather than later. Plus she has the funds to bankroll any scheme that needs implementing. Once he’s in power he could make financial decisions that favour her. I’m starting to think his violent dislike of Mrs Klein has been an act.”
She went on to explain about the Matryoshka doll in Mycroft’s drawer. “Major Nash may have been putting it there to implicate Mycroft in the death of the princess.”
“But where would he get a Matryoshka doll?” quizzed the doctor, sounding more and more worried. “You said they were impossible to obtain.”
She heard a noise at the entrance to the stable and paused before replying.
Sherlock heard it too. “Come in, Colonel Moriarty.”
The Irishman didn’t look quite so sheepish this time, though it was clear he had been listening for the last few minutes. “I thought that might be you on the porch, Mr Holmes. Keep going,” he invited, looking from one face to another before settling on the female one. “I’d like to hear your theory on Nash and the doll.”
“I think Major Nash was one of the princess’s lovers.”
Moriarty gave a low phwoar of male approval. “He certainly gets around.”
The Countess tried not to show disapproval. “You refer to Isadora Klein?”
Moriarty nodded briskly. “I think he lost the tennis game on purpose. He could have played singles with one arm tied behind his back and still beaten all of us put together. No offence Dr Watson but he’s a master at Tudor tennis. He slipped out shortly after Mrs Klein disappeared and he turned up on the porch looking like he’d been working up a sweat at something other than a game you play with a racquet.”
Sherlock pulled on his jacket to cover his damaged mechanical sleeve before it invited too much unwanted attention. “Being together also provides the two of them with an alibi for the dog incident.”
“Very convenient,” agreed the colonel with a cynical smirk. “And I’d like to thrash out the whys and wherefores but I came here in search of the doctor. General de Merville has been found in the cellar. It looks like he dragged himself out of bed and got stuck into the whiskey while we were at tennis. He’s passed out cold and isn’t responding. Miss de Merville is distressed and may need attending to as well.”
Dr Watson and the Countess hurried back to the house.
Sherlock’s voice caught the Irishman as he turned to follow. “Nice shooting, Colonel. Three bullets in the skull of a mad dog during a frenzied attack involving flailing limbs and wild desperation is quite a feat.”
Moriarty shrugged. “Lucky your boot held off the dog until I arrived. Your brother is lucky to be alive.”
“Your unerring marksmanship and my perspicacity have nothing to do with luck. What really brought you to Longchamps? No lies, now.”
The colonel’s eyes fell on the mangled boot and he knew he was not seeing the full picture. To arrive in the stable to find the Countess candidly discussing Mycroft’s near-death with Sherlock forced him to reconsider what was real. He no longer believed she was married to Dr Watson. He went back to his original idea – she was secretly married to Mycroft Holmes. If it wasn’t for her threat to hold him to account if anything happened to Mycroft he would have let the dog finish him off.
“The fresh Kent air, Mr Holmes.”
“You can do better than that. We are on the same side.”
“Are we?”
With that the colonel wandered back to the house the long way via the topiary garden, lighting up a cigarette to ward off the freezing cold air that stung his face and nipped his hands. The winter sun had not yet broken through the blanket of Kentish fog and frost rimed the chess pieces. They took on the appearance of hoary kings and queens and knights frozen in time, adding to the unreality of what was going on at Longchamps.
Trust was thin on the ground and he always, always, played his cards close to his chest. There was no other way for a lone Irish wolf to survive. Besides, trust worked two-ways, or not at all. If someone was keeping something from him, he was not inclined to share what he knew with them. Until he could figure out who to trust, he would trust no one.
Dr Watson read the scene in the cellar with the experienced eye of a medical man who had dealt with hundreds of soldiers in the messy aftermath of battle. “It’s lucky he didn’t choke to death. Who rolled him over?”
“I did,” said Ponsonby, stepping forward. “I came down to the cellar to select the wine for lunch, to uncork it to let it breathe, and the general was lying there on his back. I thought he was dead. It gave me quite a turn to see him sprawled on the cold stones. As if that wasn’t bad enough I almost keeled over when he started to gag. I realized he was choking on his own vomit and rolled him onto his side. He retched and gasped for air and I ran for help.”
It was getting crowded in the cellar. All the men were there, milling about, handkerchiefs over their mouths to blanket the stench of fresh puke, except for the colonel who was still walking in the garden. Ponsonby was praised and dismissed.
“I’ll need some help getting him up to his room,” said the doctor, looking for volunteers.
“It’s too far to go,” supplied Major Nash pragmatically. “We can put him in the valet’s room next door to you. It’s only one flight up to ground level from here. There’s a bathroom there too. It will be easier to prepare a bath. He can be taken up to his own room later, when he’s recovered.”
The plan made sense and General de Merville was duly undressed by a couple of servants then helped to the bathroom where a bath with steaming hot water awaited. He had come to his senses by then and felt heartily ashamed though the details of how he got to the cellar, why he went, and what he did when he got there were hazy. He fell into bed and fell into a fitful sleep, exhausted by the experience.
Miss de Merville was teary-eyed and refused to countenance lunch. She refused any type of sedative and asked to be left alone. The Countess sat with her briefly but they hardly spoke. Miss de Merville just kept repeating, “It’s not like him. I don’t understand what’s happening. It’s not like papa to drink to excess.”
The Cou
ntess knew that Violet de Merville was an astute and intelligent member of her sex, not a woman who had trouble separating reality from fantasy, not someone who pushed the unpalatable things in life to the back of her mind, not someone who pretended things were different in order to cope. So the question that begged to be asked was what had caused General de Merville to act out of character? Was it a guilty conscience? Guilt stemming from the bombs? Guilt over the death of Princess Paraskovia? Or was he the one who secretly passed the note (presuming there was one) to Mycroft that lured him to the porch?
The Countess returned to her bedroom to change for lunch and found Xenia waiting for her with fresh news that merely added to the puzzle of who was guilty of what.
A Matryoshka doll was found in Mrs Klein’s bedroom. It was not exactly hidden but sitting openly in a box of maquillage on the dressing table.
The news was exciting but it made no sense. The only way Mrs Klein would have been able to obtain a doll that hadn’t yet gone on sale was to receive one as a gift. But from whom? Not Viscount Cazenove, not General de Merville, not Sir James Damery – their dolls were all locked in Major Nash’s desk. Did Major Nash give her a doll? Or did she receive one from Prince Sergei?
Xenia also reported that Mrs Klein did not return to her room early. She was spotted coming down the stairs from the tennis court while play was in progress. She proceeded into the long gallery then slipped behind the tapestry, presumably to meet the baronet in the oratory that sat over the porch.
That made sense. Major Nash could easily have slipped out of the door at the end of the tennys-play that led down to the oratory. If he locked the door after himself, no one could follow.
Did they choose that spot for their assignation knowing they would hear every rabid and ferocious growl as the mad dog tore Mycroft to pieces?
Fedir had already relayed to Xenia that no Matryoshka doll was found in the prince’s bedroom. The room was thoroughly searched. He also reported that he spotted Mrs Klein coming down the stairs from the tennys-play when everyone was gathered around the front porch.
It stood to reason she had slipped out of the oratory and climbed the narrow stairs to the tennys-play and then returned to her room while everyone was distracted. The major on the other hand had pulled on his clothes and hurried down to the porch to see what was happening.
Was he disappointed that Mycroft had survived?
What was the meaning of the fleeting glance between Nash and Moriarty?
As soon as the Countess changed into an afternoon dress of ice-blue figured silk trimmed with mink around the hem and cuffs she hurried to the prince’s room to speak to him before he went down to lunch.
Ivanchyk, the prince’s valet, ushered her in. Prince Sergei was checking the time on his Breguet gold timepiece against the carriage clock on the mantelpiece.
There was no time for preliminary banter and no point pretending she was making a social call, besides, Slavs tended to be straight-talkers when amongst their own kymry. The Countess gestured for Ivanchyk to leave them, excused her peremptory bluntness on the recent attack on Mycroft Holmes then fired off some questions.
“Did you give Mrs Klein a Matryoshka doll?”
“Nyet! What a strange thing to ask!”
“When you visited the princess’s hotel room on the day of her death – don’t ask how I know - did you see a Matryoshka doll on the dressing table?”
“Da, what of it? What is the sudden interest in Matryoshka dolls?
“Did you take the doll on the dressing table when you left?”
“Nyet and nyet again! I have a crate full of identical, worthless, peasant dolls back in London. No one will be interested in buying one at the Paris Fair. Russia will be saddled with thousands of useless, sentimental, mass produced mementoes. Folk art! Ha! I could never understand what Paraskovia saw in them. As soon as the Fair finishes they will be consigned to the rubbish bin of history.”
“Had you ever met Mrs Klein before coming to London?”
“Nyet, I met her for the first time on the day of the ball. What has any of this got to do with Mr Holmes? I thought we had been invited here to discuss the bombs that threatened the life of that uber-useless son of that puffed-up Saxe-Coburg popinjay?”
“When you were sitting in your carriage in the carriage park did Mrs Klein at any stage join you?”
He dropped his gaze and twirled his gold wedding band. “I suppose Damery saw her getting into my carriage. Da, she joined me in my carriage to offer me comfort. I don’t need to remind you I had just lost my wife that same day.”
“While playing tennis this morning, did you notice when Mrs Klein left the court?”
“Da, she left a few minutes after we were eliminated.”
“And Major Nash – did you happen to notice when he left?”
“Da, he left shortly after the final game commenced.”
“He did not leave first?”
“Nyet, she left first.”
“Did he leave by the main stairs?”
“Nyet, he went through the door at the end of the court.”
“Who do you think killed your wife?”
“That I cannot tell you but if you know about the Matryoshka doll on the dressing table then you probably know about the bottle of laudanum. You probably know that she was with child and the child was not mine. You probably know she had several lovers.”
“Was Mycroft Holmes one of them?”
Prince Sergei flinched and regarded her coldly. “I thought for a moment you might be like Zoya. She was Rusalka and Baba Yaga rolled into one, a formidable witch, but you have still a lot to learn, Varvara Volodymyrovna. This conversation is terminated.”
Disappointed and not sure if she had even asked the right questions, the Countess hurried back across the landing, noting that Mycroft had recovered his composure and was in the great hall with the others. It was almost time for lunch.
Parrhesia was the term that Diogenes would have used for telling the truth.
Was the prince telling the truth?
And if part of what he said was true, did that make all of it true?
He had admitted to having Mrs Klein in his carriage on the night of the ball. Of course, she might have been offering comfort to the grieving prince, but the sort of comfort Mrs Klein was reputed to offer was not generally the sort you would offer in public. Not that there was anything disturbing about that. Some people were more carnal than others and Mrs Klein was on the hypersexual end of that carnal scale.
If it was true that the Prince had not met Mrs Klein before the ball it was unlikely they had had enough time to concoct any sort of scheme to kill Mycroft. That brought her full circle back to the fact the person who wanted Mycroft dead was a member of the Diogenes Club.
And what was she to make of the bombshell statement about the doll? If the prince did not purloin the Matryoshka doll, then who did?
It could only have been one person – and it rocked her to the core.
Did Mycroft pocket the doll and then pass it onto his ADC who then passed it on to Mrs Klein? But for what purpose? Why give a doll to Mrs Klein? If Mrs Klein simply wanted a Matryoshka doll because she had heard about them, she could have asked the prince for one since he had a crate of them back in London.
Was Mycroft (with the aid of his loyal ADC) planning to implicate Mrs Klein in the murder of the princess? Did Mrs Klein even know the princess? The prince had not met the Spanish beauty before the day of the ball so it might be deduced from that that the princess had not met her either. So why would Mrs Klein want to kill a woman she had never met?
Did she consider the princess as a rival? If the princess had several lovers on the go at the same time did that make her hypersexual as well? Was there not room for two hypersexual women in a city the size of London?
For Mrs Klein, sex was also a weapon. She used it to humiliate, reward, and blackmail men. She used it to further her ambitions and feather her financial nest. Throughout history, women
equated sex with power because it was the only power they were permitted. Did Princess Paraskovia, an attractive woman born to minor nobility who had experienced the back-stabbing machinations of the royal Russian court, equate sex with power too? The answer was obvious.
Sex, power, death… propelled the Countess to her bedroom where she raced through the connecting door to check if Mycroft’s Matryoshka doll was still in its sock.
She was shocked to find that it was. The sight of it threw her off kilter. She had hoped that Major Nash had taken the doll and passed it to Mrs Klein because it was the easiest explanation to swallow, but that was not the case, so she had to come up with a new theory for how the Spanish widow acquired her doll.
She was carefully stuffing the doll back into the sock when the connecting door rolled back silently. A frisson of panic unnerved her and she almost dropped the doll a second time. She was expecting Major Nash and was desperately trying to think up a convincing lie to explain herself but it turned out to be Sherlock.
He had revised his earlier plan to check Mycroft’s doll during the game of tennis. He had correctly and fortuitously guessed that another attack on his brother was imminent and that the most propitious time for that attack might be while everyone was on the tennis court.
“Is that the doll? Show me?”
She passed him the doll and went to the door that opened to the landing to make sure no one was about to walk in on them. He studied it intently for a few moments, pulling it apart before closing it up again and passing it back.
“A cheap gimcrack,” he said, sounding disappointed. “It doesn’t even fit back together neatly. The wood has warped already and some of the paint is peeling.”
Yes, the dolls really were just tawdry keepsakes, the sorts of things visitors to fairs buy – cheap, colourful and novel. They are light to carry, they mark the occasion, and twelve months later they are consigned to the rubbish bin of history.
