The Curse Of The Diogenes Club (26 page)

“While you were watching, did
you see a man enter Mrs Klein’s carriage? I believe her brougham
was parked alongside your coach.”

He had the habit of sweeping
back his silver mane at regular intervals; it seemed to be an
unconscious gesture not related to preening. “Her coach was parked
alongside but it was on the other side, not facing the pavilion I
mean, and her curtains were closed. I saw a man running away from
the pavilion but I paid no attention to where he went. I was
watching the spectacle. If he leapt into her carriage I’m not
surprised. He might have been looking for a place to hide. Some men
who have been to war are easily frightened by fireworks. It reminds
them of cannons and death.”

She flicked some ash into the
fireplace and the conversation shifted to mutual friends and
acquaintances in Ukraine and Russia, and then to the untimely
demise of Princess Paraskovia.

“The birchwood is an inspired
resting place, very peaceful and symbolic, a perfect choice. I
visited the graveside again when I paid a visit to the Earl of
Winchester the other day.”

“Da,” he agreed, flicking his
cigarette into the fire. “A perfect resting place for the princess
but I did not choose it. It was suggested to me by Mr Holmes.”

She flicked her cigarette into
the fire to hide her surprise. “A man for all seasons,” she mused,
smiling gently. “The birchwood reminds me of our homeland. There is
a dacha on the other side of the lake. You can just glimpse it
through the trees. Did you notice it?”

He stared at the water in the
bath as if staring into the abyss. “No, I did not notice it. Is
there anything else? The bathwater grows cold.”

She took the hint. “Yes, of
course, just one last question. Did anyone join you in your
carriage as you watched the spectacle?”

“No,” he said, ushering her to
the door. “No one joined me.”

Mycroft was waiting for her in
her bedroom. “Making any progress?”

Yes, she thought ruefully, but
not the sort she was hoping for. “Not really,” she lied.

He shrugged his rounded
shoulders as he handed her a small gift. “This is for you, happy
birthday, my dear.”

She tore away some tissue paper
to find a stunning trezyb hat pin studded with diamonds. “This
looks bespoke? Who designed it?”

“It was made to my own design.
I hope you like it.”

“How could I not like the
trezyb! It’s beautiful! Simply beautiful! Thank you so much.”

She was giving him a kiss on
the cheek when the silhouette of a man framed in the connecting
door caught Mycroft’s eye.

“Come in, Nash,” he said. “Did
you want to speak to me?”

The brooding major looked
sheepishly at his boss. “Yes, sir, but it can keep.”

“There is no keeping a secret
from the Countess, Nash. You will learn that soon enough if you
haven’t already discovered it for yourself. What is it? Nothing
serious I hope.”

“General de Merville has
over-indulged, sir. He is looking seedy and has been put to bed by
his daughter. Dr Watson advised that he be left to sleep off the
effects of too much whiskey even if it means missing out on his
dinner.”

For a heavy-set man, Mycroft
moved with surprising suppleness. “I’ll look in on him on my way
down to the great hall. I promised Damery a game of chess before
dinner.”

Major Nash waited until the
door closed.

“Why didn’t you tell me it was
your birthday?”

“I thought you knew.”

“Why would you think that?’

“I thought you knew
everything.”

He gave a self-deprecating
laugh as he turned to go. “So did I.”

Her voice stopped him before he
reached the door. “Does Mycroft know you slept with the
princess?”

He didn’t bother turning
around. “I never said I did.”

When faced with a brick wall it
was always wise to change direction. “The humiliating episode with
Mrs Klein,” she reminded, “did a similar humiliation happen to
Colonel Moriarty?”

He turned now, and there was a
flash of anger in the sky-blue eyes, like a summer storm about to
break, but virtuous self-control won the day. “Yes, what of
it?”

“I’m wondering if Mrs Klein
considers the episodes finished.”

He smiled wryly and relaxed his
shoulders. “A true sadist is never finished. There is always one
more turn of the screw. You’ve read history. The Conquistadores
spread typhus, influenza, smallpox, malaria and yellow fever to the
natives. And one of their forebears is still spreading it. Some
people
are
the disease.”

She noted the vehemence
infecting his carefully modulated tone. “You cannot allow the past
to skew your view. You need to remain brutally objective or we will
never nail Mycroft’s assassin. It’s almost time to dress for dinner
and we are no closer to finding who set those bombs than when we
started.”

“I am being brutally
objective,” he argued, with an emphasis on the brutal part, “and as
much as I would like to pin the bombs on the woman I love to hate
there is no way she is behind them. The last person on earth to
ever gain membership of the Diogenes Club will be a woman. No woman
will ever be primus baro.”

It rankled that Major Nash was
right. No woman would ever step through the doors of the Diogenes
Club unless she denied her sex and turned herself into a man.

“Did you learn anything new
today?” she put to him as she picked up the trezyb and tried not to
dwell on the unfairness of being born female.

He watched the diamonds catch
the light as she twirled her new hat pin round and round between
her fingers. “You mean apart from the fact your birthday coincides
with epiphany, Mr Dixie and Sherlock Holmes are wearing woeful
disguises, Miss Mona Blague is not as innocent as she seems, Miss
de Merville cheats at whist, Mr Bruce Blague is looking for a
son-in-law to help run his cigar empire, Isadora Klein threatens to
visit my bed tonight, Damery wears insteps in his shoes, Prince
Sergei Ilych Ivanovich Malamtov wears a stomacher, and General de
Merville cannot hold his liquor, then no. What did you call that
thing?”

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.”