The Curse Of The Diogenes Club (32 page)

“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 presume 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 of 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.”