The Curse Of The Diogenes Club (10 page)

“You could be right. They live
in separate residences in London but that could be to put everyone
off the scent. I believe he spends a lot of time at the Mayfair
house and takes most of his meals there. They travel together most
of the time anyway and away from London it could be a different
arrangement altogether. But why the secrecy?”

“She hasn’t been widowed long,
maybe less than twelve months, and if they married in haste they
might not want anyone to know. A lot of people still frown on
anything less than widow’s weeds for the full twelve months of
mourning. And to marry before three years is still considered bad
form in some circles. As for the place in Baker Street, it is a
place of business as much as a home, so he retains it but he
couldn’t expect her to live there.”

“Mmm, yes, it’s the place you
associate with Sherlock Holmes the consulting detective so I
suppose the doctor doesn’t want to mess things up there, but from
what I gathered from something the brother said, Sherlock spends
most of his time in Sussex.”

Nash nodded. “He’s got a place
on the South Downs. Mycroft Holmes, Dr Watson and the Countess went
there for Christmas but she stayed in a village house. It could be
that she and the doctor are keeping their marriage a secret from
Sherlock too so as not to rock the boat.”

This was news to Moriarty! “Are
you saying she didn’t spend Christmas with you?”

Nash blew a plume of smoke into
the frosty air and gave a cynical laugh. “Next time you call
someone stupid – you should check the mirror. I was at Longchamps
with my sister and her family. Her husband is a violin maker. They
have five children ranging in age from four years to twelve years
and all of them play the violin. Individual lessons from their
pater go from breakfast till mid-afternoon and then in the evening
there are recitals and performances for the enjoyment of family
members. Do you know how boring that is? Needless to say, making a
violin and having the talent to play one is not the same
thing.”

Moriarty laughed heartily. “At
least you had company. I had my Irish Setter for company and he
found
me
boring.”

The two men laughed and it was
almost like old times when they were at military college together
pitting themselves against the snobbery of their wealthier
cadres.

“So what do you think of my
theory?” asked Nash, enjoying the warm smoke from his cigarette
against the cold night air that nipped at his face. “It would
explain why we cannot get past the first post and yet we have never
had any trouble with anyone else.”

“Apart from Isadora Klein, you
mean,” reminded Moriarty, smarting at the memory of the humiliation
at the hands of the dark seductress. The only thing that consoled
him was the knowledge that Nash had suffered the same fate.

“Yes, apart from that
bitch.”

Now that Moriarty had given the
matter of passing the first post, namely the failure of, despite
all his best efforts, serious consideration he wondered if Nash
wasn’t onto something but got it slightly wrong. “The Countess
might be secretly married all right, but I thought there was
something going on between her and your boss.”

“What! Mycroft Holmes!
Absolutely not!”

“Why not? I know he’s got as
much appeal as a fat slug but he wields power and influence, and
with women that counts for more.”

Nash was shaking his head. “No,
no, you’re way off the mark.”

“Name all the women you know
who would lend a valuable pearl earring to a man who is a mere
acquaintance.”

“She’s probably got heaps to
spare.”

“And think how he just handed
it back to her as if the jewel was a mere bagatelle. What did he
call it? Trinket?”

“He had a lot on his mind.”

“And when she perched herself
on the arm of the doctor’s chair she was looking directly at
Mycroft. There was a fair bit of subtle eye-contact and they were
in accord about something.”

“The death of the princess,
that’s all.”

“See, that’s what intrigues me.
He called her in. He gave her permission to discuss it. She
deferred to him. I have never seen her defer to anyone. Not
once!”

Nash was still shaking his head
but not as forcefully. “He’s not the type to get married.”

“Neither are we the type – we
like our freedom too much - and yet we’d marry her tomorrow if she
would say yes.”

“No argument there.”

“And did you say Mycroft was in
Sussex too?”

“Yes, so?”

“Maybe it was him she wanted to
be with. Who invited her to spend Christmas in Sussex?”

“He did.”

“See, they’re keeping the
marriage a secret from Sherlock and Dr Watson so as not to rock the
boat. Hang on! Or else the other two are in on it and are
protective of her for the sake of social approval, or should that
be disapproval. There’s something else. I’ve always thought someone
high up in government was protecting her. I think it could be your
boss. He’s got influence, hasn’t he?”

“More influence than you can
imagine.”

“I bet he’s been looking out
for her.”

Nash nodded in the dark,
recalling how his boss’s behaviour had altered since the Countess
had arrived in London. He swallowed hard and tossed his spent
cigarette on the damp grass. “Let’s go. This business isn’t going
to sort itself out. We need to nail that mysterious photographer
before he makes a better job of it next time.”

They reached the top of the
rise when Moriarty paused. “Maybe we should let him.”

“What?”

“May be we should let him clear
the path to the church.”

Nash laughed crudely. “You
haven’t changed! Still the same cunning cocky bastard!”

“All’s fair in love and
war!”

Nash caught Moriarty by the arm
as he commenced to stride off. “Why don’t the two of us act smart
for a change?”

“How do you mean? And let go my
arm if you know what’s good for you.”

Nash released his grip. “Let’s
leave the small fry to Scotland Yard. We want to nail the bastard
who commissioned the bomb man. Like the Countess said - it has to
be one of the guests.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“We can cross most of the
guests straight off the list. The Marchioness of Minterne-Magna is
hardly likely to hire a bomb man to take out Mycroft Holmes because
he turned down her invitation to afternoon tea. He never socializes
anyway. It has to be one of the male guests, someone high up,
someone who has a lot to lose regarding the amendment to the
constitution of the Diogenes Club, the Irish regiment question, or
the death of the princess.”

Moriarty was nodding. “I’m in
agreement with you so far but how can we question people who don’t
want to be questioned? They aren’t likely to take kindly to you and
me nosing into their private affairs. Prince Sergei isn’t going to
give me two minutes of his time.”

“I agree my plan needs some
thought. Let’s sleep on it. We can meet up tomorrow night. Let’s
say ten o’clock in the Copper Beech wood. That gives us plenty of
time to mull it over.”

“You realize we’ll have stiff
competition nailing the mysterious guest. Sherlock, Dr Watson and
the Countess will be after him too.”

“Speaking of the Countess,”
said Nash, “if it turns out she isn’t married to Dr Watson or
Mycroft Holmes may the best man win.”

“I just had a terrible
thought,” confessed Moriarty, suppressing a shudder, “what if she’s
secretly married to Sherlock Holmes.”

Countess Volodymyrovna had
arranged to meet with Miss de Merville at midday at their favourite
restaurant in Covent Garden to discuss ramping up the suffragette
campaign now that a new era had dawned, never dreaming the
conversation would be hijacked by the bomb incident.

Rules was the oldest restaurant
in London and the two women adored it because it was the closest
they would ever get to a private gentlemen’s club. It was always
full of aromatic cigar smoke, the menu featured things like
venison, rabbit and oysters, and the décor was masculine, dark and
clubby. Miss de Merville always reserved the same table.

“Oh, thank goodness you are
uninjured!” she sighed dramatically as the Countess slipped into
the banquette with an elegance that defied gravity. “Lady
Northbridger was on the stairs when the third bomb went off. She
died instantly. And Miss Lucinda Faversham was cut to pieces by
flying glass. She has lost the sight in her right eye. It is
ghastly. One feels guilty to come away unscathed.”

Two black velvets – champagne
and Guinness - were brought to the table at once.

“Quite. Nazdorovya! Where were
you when the first bomb went off?”

“I was in the ballroom having
one last dance with Pugsy Setterfield. What about you?”

“I was collecting my Snow Queen
cloak. Did your papa suffer any injuries?” The Countess knew very
well the General was fine, but it was time to fish for information.
It was often the smallest detail that led to something
substantive.

“No, he was tremendously lucky!
He had gone up to the dome room to smoke a hookah with Prince
Sergei, Sir James Damery and Mr Bruce Blague when they bumped into
Colonel Moriarty and Major Nash. I have never met the latter. I
believe he is a baronet who is as poor as a church mouse,” she
digressed before pausing expectantly.

“Yes, his family seat is in
Kent. He was dressed as Horatio Hornblower. Shall we order?”

Miss de Merville blushed
becomingly. “Oh, yes, blond and broad-shouldered. Frightfully
handsome. You order this time. He will need a rich wife. You would
suit.”

The Countess scanned the menu.
“It would suit me better to remain unwed. You were saying…”

“Oh, where was I?”

“Your father had just gone up
to the dome room when he bumped into…”

“Colonel Moriarty and Major
Nash, yes, that’s right.” Her voice rose in feminine pitch as if
excited by something. “They were at loggerheads over a woman and it
was decided to have a duel. Can you believe it! Who do you think it
was? The woman, I mean. I have been wracking my brains all
morning.”

The waiter came across to take
their order.

“Celeriac and apple soup to
start. Venison curry. And to finish a Bombe Alaska.”

Miss de Merville groaned.
“Three courses – do you think we should?”

“I hardly ate a thing last
night and I skipped breakfast this morning.”

“Me too, but I’m wearing a new
corset and there’s no give.”

“We’ll ease up on the Black
Velvets. Miss Mona Blague would be my guess.”

“What? Oh, yes, of course! I
forgot her because she wasn’t at the ball. She’s in the market for
a husband with title. Major Nash would be perfect. What regiment is
he with?”

“He works as aide de camp to Mr
Mycroft Holmes.”

“Really? ADC to the primus baro
of the Diogenes? How fascinating!”

“Fascinating?”

Either the new corset was
causing hot flushes or she blushed some more. “Oh, the Diogenes
recently had their elections for the new primus baro, when I say
recently, I mean about three months ago. Papa was in the running.
He was quite confident of his chances and was terribly put out when
Mr Holmes pipped him at the post. I remember him whining because Mr
Holmes’s ADC, who is also a member of the club, cast the deciding
vote. Until then it was a tie. I wondered at the time who the ADC
was and pictured a dull milksop.”

“Who was the previous primus
baro?”

“The Earl of Winchester, but
the poor dear is past it. The stroke has left him incapacitated.
The position of primus baro is held for life but three doctors
certified him medically unfit, hence the elections.”

“Do you recall the names of the
other candidates?”

Miss de Merville’s pretty brow
creased. “There was just one other. A good friend of papa’s. Oh,
what was his name?”

“Sir James Damery?”

“No, he’s Irish. He’s a member
of the Carlton Club. There’s some silly rule that Irishmen cannot
be members of the Diogenes. Papa says it’s ridiculous because
Damery has done more for Britain than any other member of the club.
There’s going to be a vote on changing the constitution shortly -
something about allowing Irish and Americans in, but not Jews,
Blacks, Orientals, Arabs or Russians. Oh, now I remember, the third
candidate was Admiral Quantock. He died in a boating accident last
month. His yacht capsized in the Solent.”

The remainder of the meal was
spent discussing the enfranchisement of women. As they were saying
goodbye in Maiden Lane it was Miss de Merville who returned to the
topic of Major Nash.

“Was it Major Nash who came to
pick you up yesterday at Brown’s?”

“Yes, it was. The Princess of
Wales wanted to ask me something about protocol for the Russian
royal family,” she lied. “And he acted as courier since he was
passing through that part of London.”

Miss de Merville appeared
satisfied. “Have you heard the rumour about Princess Paraskovia?
They are saying she has moved into Clarges Hotel.”

The Countess who had stiffened,
immediately relaxed. “Yes, I heard the same rumour.
Scandalous!”

“Absolutely scandalous! I have
to get home and release this corset. It is strangling me. I can
feel the Bombe Alaska sitting here.” She pressed her fingers
between her breasts. “Speaking of bombs. Papa told me the duellists
were about to fire the first shot when the first bomb went off. If
not for that bomb Colonel Moriarty or Major Nash might now be
dead.”

The Countess had already
thought the same thing. She also thought it extremely fortuitous
that the men in the dome did not get blown up by the first bomb.
Did one man deliberately lead the others up there? Did he plan to
make some sort of excuse – a call of nature perhaps – and rush off
just prior to midnight leaving the others to their fate? Who
suggested the duel? Who opposed it? Who procured the weapons? Who
wanted Mycroft dead?