The Curse Of The Diogenes Club

by Anna Lord

  19

  Deuce

  Sherlock was shimmying down the drainpipe – having deemed the upper landing too risky to skirt while everyone was gathering in the great hall - when Major Nash knocked on her bedroom door.

  “I came to let you know that Mycroft is about to explain what happened on the porch.” He poked his head in the door, not intending to come in, but noted at once that one side of her triple bay window was wide open, letting in a considerable draught, and that she seemed to be extremely interested in the fog banking up around the half-timbered walls of the house. “Let me close that window for you,” he offered, striding across the room before she had a chance to forestall him. “The lead casement can sometimes jam.”

  She heard Sherlock leap the last few feet to the ground and wondered if the major heard it too as he pulled the window into place and secured the catch then watched through the diamond-leaded panes as the figure of man darted through the fog and disappeared. But he was too clever, too cagey, to question her.

  “Have you spoken to Miss de Merville?” he asked blandly to deflect from his own suspicions. “Is she coming to lunch?”

  Feeling the mounting pressure to solve the case as physical tension pressing in from all sides, like the fog pressing in on the house, the Countess could not let the moment pass. It was midday Sunday and they were running out of time to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. It was now or never.

  “Why did you give a Matryoshka doll to Isadora Klein?”

  The look of mild shock on his face could not have been feigned. “What?”

  She repeated the question.

  He continued to look stunned. “Who told you I did?”

  “No one – I surmised it for myself.”

  Shock turned to mild amusement. “Because I renewed relations with her?”

  “Because she has one in her room and you renewed relations with her.”

  Amusement morphed into avid interest. “You searched her room? No! Let me rephrase that. Your maid searched her room?”

  “What difference does it make who did the searching – did she receive it from you?”

  “Where would I get one from?”

  “From the princess.”

  “She only gave them to her lovers,” he reminded.

  “So you say. Who told you that?”

  He appeared to consider the question, indicating he wasn’t sure what the right answer was, surprising, because he was very good at having all the right answers to hand at the drop of a hat. “Who do you think?” he challenged.

  There was only one answer. “How would Mycroft know that unless he had been her lover too?”

  “If you were as close to Mycroft Holmes as you pretend to be then you would know how ridiculous that accusation was.”

  “Then how did he get hold of a doll?”

  In the blink of an eye he understood that she had seen the doll inside the sock. “You searched his drawer?”

  “So did you. Or did you plant that doll? Are you planning to implicate him in the murder of the princess to deflect from your lover?”

  A muscle in his square jaw tightened and he bunched his fists aggressively as the cloak of courtesy fell away. She tried to step around him but he blocked her passage to the door, and an intensely handsome hulk of a man when filled with bottled-up fury can be a formidable obstacle to dodge.

  Apprehension rising, she moved quickly to the connecting door but he blocked that egress too. There was a brief senseless struggle that only served to reinforce his physical superiority, whereby he grabbed both her wrists and pulled her into him. His voice was vibrating with anger and his muscular powerhouse of a body was as taut as a drawn bow. “Don’t get in my way,” he warned, bristling fiercely. “I’ve had enough of your meddling.”

  “Am I interrupting something?”

  Colonel Moriarty was framed in the doorway and the tension in his face matched the tension in the room.

  Major Nash released his vice-like grip and stormed past the colonel.

  “She’s all yours,” he growled as he deliberately cannoned into a broad shoulder that seemed to be in his way.

  Colonel Moriarty had never seen Nash lose his temper. Even in the midst of a brawl at the Hellfire Club or the barracks at Woolwich, Nash could be relied upon to keep a cool head.

  “What’s going on?” the colonel directed her way as soon as he closed the door to afford them some privacy. “I thought you said you and Nash had no understanding?”

  “We now have a perfect understanding,” she said, lacing her tone with sarcasm before harnessing her embryonic understanding of what had just happened and switching her focus, not to mention frustration, his way. “Why did you really come to Longchamps? And please don’t tell me it was to vie for my hand or I will have you declared dangerous and demand that you be locked in the cellar until this weekend is finished.”

  “So much for gratitude,” he mocked with gung-ho disdain. “I save Mycroft’s life for the second time as you requested, or should that be threatened, and that’s the thanks I get. Quite frankly, I expected better: a medal for bravery, a grateful kiss, a declaration of undying love, a Homeric ode paying homage to my heroic attributes, my unerring marksmanship, my manly prowess, my…”

  “Shut-up! When you arrived at Longchamps you were whistling a confident tune, as if you were certain of not being turned away, and when you stepped into the hall Major Nash over-egged the theatrics. We both know his fury is the slow-burning type. He is not prone to exaggerated public outbursts which he then does an about-face of twenty seconds later. He chose the bedrooms with care. He knew there was a spare room upstairs and yet he started to lead you to the valet’s room. The room he believed would be conveniently next door to Mycroft before I convinced Dr Watson to swap. So, two conclusions can be drawn. Either you came here at the invitation of Major Nash to assassinate Mycroft…”

  “The facts don’t bear that out.”

  “Never interrupt a Ukrainian woman when she is theorising and speaking at the same time...Or you came to protect Mycroft from an assassin.”

  “An Irishman doesn’t ask permission to speak or make love or shoot someone. And right now I’m veering toward the latter. Although throwing you on the bed and giving you a few pointers on gratitude is coming a close second. You got the last bit right.”

  She believed him because the look on his face as he hurtled past her on the stairs was that of a man who did not intend to arrive late to save someone’s life, or to deliberately misfire. Having settled his role to her satisfaction, she drew breath and thought back to the fleeting exchange of male eyes when the major burst onto the porch and saw that the dog was dead. “The question that springs to mind - did Major Nash hope that you would fail?”

  “Good question. I’ve been wondering the same thing since you told me he has aspirations to replace Mycroft Holmes as primus baro.”

  “You’ve known him a long time. Is he capable of treachery? Is he ambitious? Is he ruthless?”

  “It doesn’t matter how long you have known someone, you never really know them. All men wear a mask. Sometimes you catch a glimpse of the man behind the mask. Sometimes the mask slips and you see something you didn’t expect.”

  She nodded. “What do you make of his liaison with Isadora Klein?”

  “Why do you suddenly care so much about who he beds?”

  “When a man does an about face, as Major Nash has done with Mrs Klein, there must be a good reason. I want to get to the bottom of it.”

  “Then ask him.”

  The lunch gong sounded, presumably for their benefit since the others were already downstairs; apart from the de Mervilles who were not up to joining the luncheon party.

  “We better go down using separate stairs,” he reasoned, “so people don’t guess we’ve been together.”

  “Don’t be so Irish,” she returned flippantly. “That never works.”

  He had never met a woman he wanted to slap and kiss at the same time. “I pre
sume you know that because you’ve tried it and failed?”

  “I know it because I’ve seen Lola O’Hara try it and fail.”

  “You’ve met Lola O’Hara?” He sounded impressed.

  “Of course, who hasn’t met Lola O’Hara? By the way, I want you to think about my question over lunch. I’ll ask you again later.”

  His mind was still on the stunning Irish actress. “What question?”

  “Major Nash and Isadora Klein,” she reminded testily before placing her hand tenderly on his arm as they descended the stairs together. “And just for the record, I am grateful for what you did and I’m glad you came this weekend.”

  He liked the feel of her hand on his arm but he wasn’t about to show it. “Well, you have a very Ukrainian way of expressing it.”

  Lunch passed pleasantly without any mention of why they had come to Longchamps, and while they were all in high spirits the conversation flowed effortlessly. The incident with the dog did not spoil hearty appetites, and the only low point was the health of General de Merville.

  Colonel Moriarty sidled up behind the Countess as she stood up from her chair at the end of the meal. His voice was a whisper into the back of her head.

  “I’ll meet you by the sundial in the topiary garden in half an hour.”

  The fog had barely lifted all day, which was a good thing because it would provide them with cover from prying eyes, especially from the rooms that overlooked that part of the garden. Most of the guests, exhausted from the tennis game, opted for a rest in their rooms. That made it easy to sneak out wearing a fur dolman and a pair of fur lined carriage boots without having to enter into an explanation as to why anyone would choose to walk in the garden in thick fog.

  Feet crunching gravel alerted him to her arrival. Colonel Moriarty stepped out from behind a giant green Rook and steered her to a garden seat at the end of the path. Visibility was reduced to about ten feet as they sat by side trying not to shiver and kept their voices to a minimum.

  “You wanted to know what I thought of Nash rekindling relations with Isadora Klein – he cannot stand her guts.”

  “But he has been paying her a surprising amount of attention; fawning over her would be a better way to express it, and he was seen coming out of her room in the early hours of the morning.”

  “He’s up to something for sure, but like you said earlier – he’s over-egging it. Mask or no mask I’ve seen him around women. A man as good-looking as Nash doesn’t need to try hard. Within five minutes of entering a room every woman in that room is in love with him, young and old, starry-eyed and cynical; some do a good job of feigning indifference but they’re the ones who are truly smitten. Men are the same. Every man either wants to be him or be his friend. It’s like he swallowed a bottle of likeability elixir at birth. I’ve tried hard to hate him plenty of times but I always come round. And don’t forget a good-looking man can use his looks as much as a woman. I bet he had loads of practise while working for the Foreign Office. Some of the best foreign spies are women and honey traps can catch a queen bee as well as drones.”

  “If he is feigning his attraction to Mrs Klein that rather puts her in the frame for the bombs - could the French king of the day be a woman?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing.”

  He was hoping to take her hands in his but she had them tucked inside a fur muff, so he shoved his hands into his pockets. “Did you happen to notice how Isadora Klein was also flirting with Miss Blague during lunch?”

  Startled, her eyes flicked sideways. “You’re not saying…?”

  “She likes women as well as men – of course she does. Group trysts fire her blood. She was flirting madly with you on the first day – don’t tell me you didn’t notice - because she thought you and Nash had some sort of understanding and she started picturing a threesome but when he turned his attention to Miss Blague, so did she.”

  She kicked herself. How could she have missed all the overtures, all the subtle flirtatious signals? How, indeed! She had been thinking this case was about wealth, power and politics, which it was, but not exclusively. It never was! There is always the human element – jealousy, fornication, gratification. “The humiliation! You and Nash were the threesome!”

  Despite the aching cold, his cheeks flushed red and the heat spread right up to his bald head, and though he didn’t say so directly, his next sentence confirmed it. “Nash isn’t a sucker for punishment. He has too much self-respect. That’s why the manly charm directed Isadora Klein’s way is bogus. I don’t believe he’d offer Miss Blague up as a sacrificial lamb either. Not under his own roof. If Miss Blague is so inclined when she returns to London so be it, but Nash will make sure it doesn’t happen tonight. You think his behaviour puts Isadora in the frame for the bombs; I think Nash is using this weekend to take his revenge.”

  “And you?”

  “Every time I look at her smug face I want to shoot it but in my line of work when a man blurs the line between personal and professional he’s finished. I managed to put what happened behind me probably because I had a lot more practice at dealing with humiliation than Nash. I’ve set my sights on someone else…not that I’m about to leave my bedroom door unlocked tonight. When you come to my bed it will be because you want to be there not because you feel grateful.”

  Her heart was beating so fast, pumping so much blood, she might as well have been sitting in front of a roaring fire, and though she wanted him more than any man she’d ever met, she was not about to ruin things between them by having him confuse love with gratitude. “I have a lot to think about tonight.”

  “I know you do. I’ve seen that look in your eyes before. That look you get when you’re all fired up with ideas and theories and everything is about to fall into place. I could have taken you a dozen times this weekend but I want our first time to be special.”

  No one who’d ever met her could ever accuse her of being a Romantic with a capital R. A man had to appeal to her cerebrally before she would give him the time of day let alone consider him as a lover, and though Colonel Moriarty clearly lacked the genius of his elder sibling he more than made up for it in wit and passion, not passion in the over-used sense, but strength of character and staying power. She sensed he was not a man who would disappoint – neither in bed and nor out of it. “Are we talking rose petals on the bed and a Celtic choir in the background?”

  “I was waiting for that sardonic retort. Be as flippant as you like. Every trite word tells me you feel exactly the same. Shall we go inside using the same door?”

  “You go in,” she said, keeping a level tone while marvelling at his ability to read her mind, “I’m going to pay a visit to the stable…and although I won’t be paying your bed a visit tonight, I’m more grateful than you can imagine, and one day I will ask you to leave your bedroom door open so that I can express exactly how I feel…and it will have nothing to do with gratitude.”

  Her parting glance was as intimate as anything ever shared between two lovers.

  Mr Dixie was loitering by the stable door, keeping watch; he had earned himself a nice fat remission for his vigilance. Not only had he spotted two members of the Barney Stockdale gang but he had kept a protective eye on Sherlock too.

  Dr Watson was in the stable, chatting to the great detective. Finally, he was able to recall the person who tripped him up on the stairs. It had been someone dressed as Henry VIII.

  “But there were three such characters,” pressed Sherlock. “Can you recall if it was Blague, Damery or de Merville standing closest to the top of the stairs?”

  “That is asking too much,” bleated the doctor. “They were standing together. It could have been any one of them who stuck his foot out.”

  “How is de Merville doing?” enquired the Countess as she joined them.

  The two men swung round. Dr Watson knew the question was meant for him.

  “He has recovered from this morning’s episode but he feels heartily ashamed o
f himself and refuses to join the others downstairs, which is unusual in my experience because most drunks have no recollection of their past intoxication and consequently feel no shame. Damery has gone to persuade him no one holds him in low esteem. This last week has been a harrowing experience for everyone.”

  “What about Miss de Merville?” she asked.

  “I think she will be ready to rejoin the party for afternoon tea. Mrs Klein went in to sit with her. They were talking tea gowns and Mrs Klein was brushing Miss de Merville’s hair for her. It was very touching.”

  Sherlock glanced at his daughter and he could see by the sudden spark in her eye that there was a bright light of understanding burning deep inside her. He had felt that same knowing light burning deep inside himself more times than he could say.

  “By Jove!” he exclaimed, “You’ve solved it! You know who set the bombs and who is trying to kill Mycroft!”

  “Yes,” she said in a quiet voice, the sort that conveyed utmost conviction. “I believe I have it but I need to order my thoughts in private before I share them.”

  Sherlock laughed. “Ah! The palace of the mind! What a wondrous place!”

  Dr Watson rolled his eyes; having to deal with one Sherlock was bad enough but he was now outnumbered. “I believe we need to gather everyone together in the great hall and thrash out this bomb matter, not because it is likely to shed any light on what happened but because that is what everyone was invited for. If we do not discuss the bombs everyone will start to suspect their invitation to Longchamps was for something other than a duty to the heir to the throne.”

  Sherlock slapped his old friend on the back and chuckled. “Right as usual, Watson! I shall be here, mucking out the stable, should you need my services!”

  They all gathered in the great hall and discussed the night of the ball ad infinitum until it was time to dress for dinner. Nothing was achieved but it gave the Countess a chance to go over the facts and discard the bits that didn’t fit.

  Dinner passed pleasantly and everyone slept soundly, except for those who hardly slept at all because they were busy doing other things.