The Curse Of The Diogenes Club (4 page)

“Good evening, General de
Merville,” he called, employing his most genial Irish accent,
greeting the one with the widest girth and highest rank first.

The General looked back over a
padded shoulder. “Oh, it’s you, Colonel Moriarty. I didn’t
recognize you in that ridiculous get-up and that ludicrous curly
wig. One of the Three Musketeers, is it? I can never remember the
names. Pathos, Amos…You are acquainted with Sir James Damery, but
have you met Mr Bruce Blague, from across the Atlantic.”

Colonel Moriarty fought the
urge to scratch his bald head – prayed the wig wasn’t infested with
lice - and acknowledged the newcomer. “A pleasure to make your
acquaintance, sir, I had the pleasure of meeting your daughter at a
pre-Christmas dinner party at the General’s house in Berkeley
Square. Will Miss Blague be here this evening?”

He knew very well she wouldn’t,
because he had listened in on the entire conversation and had tried
not to laugh out loud. Miss Moneybags was not on his dance list,
not that such a thing existed on the cusp of the twentieth century,
but if it did, no amount of money would induce him to put her name
on it. He preferred his women smart and with spark. He already had
a doormat. The uppity Countess was top of his dance list.

“Alas, she will not be joining
us. My daughter is currently not feeling herself.”

“I’m sorry to hear it, sir. I
hope she recovers full health soon.”

The news that had rendered the
poor girl bereft had had the opposite effect on the colonel. It had
given him a new lease on life and spurred him to travel from
Ireland to London in time for the Prince Regent’s New Year’s Eve
Ball, imaginatively titled: Last Night Forever.

The sudden removal of Viscount
Cazenove from London was a godsend. He had borrowed the theatrical
Musketeer costume from a fellow Irishman who did odd jobs in Covent
Garden and had connections to several theatres.

“But you don’t have a ticket to
the ball,” his friend had warned, digging out the Musketeer outfit
from the bottom of a chest full of moth-eaten costumes and
bedraggled wigs. “You will never get away with it, Jim. You will
land yourself in a military brig – not an auspicious start to the
twentieth century.”

“Let me worry about that,” he
had shrugged off, and so here he was about to walk through the door
with three worthies from the English-American establishment.

“Oh, dammit!” cussed Mr Blague.
“I left my invitation in my coat pocket after we went in the first
time. It must be in the cloak room.”

“Don’t worry about it,”
dismissed General de Merville. “I know the chap on duty at the
door. Captain Thompson will not cause a fuss.”

“Oh, bother!” cursed Colonel
Moriarty with uncharacteristic mildness for an Irishman, after
turning out his moth-eaten pockets. “I seemed to have done the same
thing. My invitation is in the pocket of my stormcoat.”

“Well, lucky I have my mine!”
laughed Damery. “What about you de Merville? Did you leave your
invitation inside too?”

General de Merville scowled.
“Yes, I did - blast it! - but Captain Thompson will remember me. I
made a point of congratulating him on his recent promotion. The
chap will not make a fuss. I’ll handle it.”

They reached the door just as
several carriages arrived in quick succession.

“Hello, Thompson. I just
stepped out to the veranda to have a cigar with these gentlemen,
and it seems that three of us have left our invitations in the
cloak room. No need to make a fuss, there’s a good fellow. Have a
happy and prosperous New Year, Captain. Give my regards to that
good wife of yours.”

Moriarty, still fighting the
urge to scratch an itch, scanned for potential trouble as soon as
he entered the Moorish foyer and quickly spotted it in the form of
Major - Horatio Hornblower - Nash on patrol by the main door
leading into the ballroom. Nash wasn’t head of security; he was a
paper-shuffler in the War Office. The Prince of Wales would have a
crack team of Varangian guards looking out for him, but it would be
just like Nash to ask to see his invitation. He always did things
by the book.

The Irishman had recently
checked with a few friends about who Nash’s superior officer was in
the paper-shuffling department. Every single one gave a different
answer. One said Nash was spying for the foreign office in
Shanghai. Another said Nash had resigned his commission and was
married and living in Sydney. A third said he thought Nash was
dead. His instincts smelled a rat and tonight he planned to get to
the bottom of the rat hole.

But that’s not the main reason
he had been keen to attend this royal shindig. He wanted to remind
the Countess of his existence. They had parted as friends but
friendship was not what he wanted and if Nash was the man standing
between him and the woman he intended to marry - so be it. Nash
would have to go.

He sprinted for the stairs just
as Horatio ‘bloody’ Hornblower turned to scan the deck.

Thanks to that conversation
he’d listened in on he knew the Countess would be dressed as the
Snow Queen. Among the violent verisimilitude of garish costumes her
white gown would stand out like a breath of fresh air. He didn’t
intend to play his hand too early and risk drawing attention to
himself. As long as she was by his side at midnight for the first
kiss of the new century that’s all that mattered.

Major Inigo Nash had spent
years observing foreigners dressed in any number of outlandish
disguises. He had learned to pick out the traits that mattered. The
way they smiled, the way they tilted their head and the way they
ran when they forgot themselves. It was the little details that had
saved his life more than once. So when he spotted the Musketeer
rushing for the stairs he knew at once who it was. He’d observed
Jim in motion plenty of times; they were at military college
together and had shared the same dormitory; possibly even the same
secret benefactor who had paid their fees and supplied them with a
stipend. He knew everything about Colonel James Isambard Moriarty,
including how his head wobbled when he was drunk, what triggered
his Irish temper, and exactly how bankrupt he was.

No way had Jim received a royal
invitation. But Jim was good at getting into places he was never
invited to. The night was young. Let him get his hopes up. There
was plenty of time to throw him out later; about a quarter to
midnight would be the perfect time to alert the royal body guards
to the Irish interloper. He knew very well Jim would be making a
play for the Countess’s affection but it would be over his dead
body. Or better still, Jim’s dead body.

She was the most desirable
woman he’d ever met, probably the wealthiest, and most certainly
the smartest. She was everything he wanted in a wife and he’d be
damned if he’d let Jim get between him and the object of his
desire.

But right now he had other
things on his mind and a job to do. Mycroft Holmes had filled him
in on the suicide-death of Princess Paraskovia. His job was to keep
an eye on the Russian ambassador – specifically to see who he
talked to, and to keep his ear to the ground – to note if any dirty
rumours started up regarding the death of the princess.

He intended to keep track of
the Countess too. There were a few questions he wanted answered.
What connection did she have to Mycroft Holmes? Why did Mycroft
call her in before calling Scotland Yard? Why did he discuss the
suicide-death of the princess with the Countess before discussing
it with his trusted ADC?

And now here was Jim turning up
like a bad smell. What connection did he have to the Countess? Were
they lovers? Were they working together? Was she a Fenian
sympathiser? Or was she a Russian spy working against the British
effort in the Boer War?

Dr Watson always wore his
Scottish kilt on New Year’s Eve and he wasn’t about to mess with
tradition just because he’d been invited to the Prince Regent’s
gala ball. He hoped there was going to be a reel. Nothing fired up
his Scottish blood more than a lively Scottish reel followed by a
chorus or two of Auld Lang Syne.

He’d spotted the white troika
among the carriages in the park and knew that the Countess had
arrived ahead of him. A glass of alcoholic punch to whet his
whistle and then he would track her down among the five hundred
illustrious guests.

“Hello, Major Nash,” he greeted
as he paused in the doorway leading to the magnificent ballroom,
feeling chipper and in high spirits. “I say, that naval outfit
looks the real thing. Did Countess Volodymyrovna come this
way?”

“Good evening, Dr Watson. Yes,
the Countess came this way about fifteen minutes ago.”

The doctor scanned the vast
ballroom which had been delineated into three parts and topped with
domes. “What a splendid crowd. Is Mr Mycroft Holmes here
tonight?”

“Yes, he is dressed as Sir
Walter Raleigh.”

“Marvellous, marvellous! Well,
I shall be off to snaffle a beverage from that blackamoor with the
drinks tray. Are you on door duty? Shall I bring you an alcoholic
punch to lubricate your throat?”

“Thank you for the offer, Dr
Watson. I am not on door duty,” he lied. “I am waiting for a fellow
officer.”

“In that case, I’ll be off to
locate the Countess. Enjoy the festivities, Major.”

Major Inigo Nash decided it was
high time to start circulating. If Dr Watson thought he was on door
duty then the other guests were probably thinking the same thing.
He needed to start acting as if he actually belonged at this costly
knees-up.

Prince Sergei first.

And then the whereabouts of the
Countess.

No! Other way around! He didn’t
want Jim to get the jump on him.

Some celebrated beauties were
merely celebrated and hardly beautiful. Very few could lay claim to
being both. Mrs Greville was one and Lola O’Hara another. In her
heyday, none could match Isadora Klein when it came to goddess
status but that day had passed. She was still a cut above mortal
beauties, but more like Hera than Aphrodite.

Dressed as a Valkyrie with a
winged helmet and a metallic cuirass that curved around a pair of
voluptuous breasts, Mrs Isadora Klein, smouldering, seductive and
sultry, was holding court among a circle of eager young acolytes at
the top of the stairs where the paired symmetrical risers met in
the centre and led to the mezzanine that overlooked the
ballroom.

The scene reminded Major Nash
of something unpleasant he’d once seen in Mexico. It was a hungry
shark in a tank full of slow swimming sardines. Undeniably
dangerous, and yet there was no denying the mesmerizing allure of
the languorous beauty of the predator as it bided its time. There
was something primal, sexual, hypnotic, masturbatory, in the
danger; like a wet dream. He’d gone back the next day but there was
only the shark circling round and round. Someone told him sharks
never rested. Even when they slept they propelled themselves
forward, unable to find stasis. It sounded like a teleological
nightmare that had no reason for existence except that it
existed.

Like a naïve fool, he’d fallen
for the predatory charm, behaving like one of her adoring lapdogs,
before realising her interest in him was a matter of his own
self-delusion. As soon as she discovered he was a penniless baronet
she made an example of him. He still felt the sting.

Prince Sergei wasn’t after a
new wife. The old one had only been dead a few hours. But he
recalled the pretty little girl in the cherry orchard that time he
paid a visit to his comrade Volodya Volodymyr on his estate just
outside Odessa.

How old was the step-child?
Four or five years? No matter. Cute as a doll and stupendously
precocious, singing and dancing and showing off. Volodya doted on
her; spoiled her rotten and indulged her every whim; a terrible
tragedy that he died so young. The girlchild had inherited his
entire fortune.

Later, she had inherited the
fortune of Volodya’s mad sister too. Zoya Volodymyrovna was always
a fearless firebrand. No man had the balls to take her on. She died
in Australia from snake bite. The snake probably died later.

He wouldn’t mind a large estate
in west Ukraine to add to his farms in Minsk and Kharkiv. And the
young countess apparently had vast land holdings in Australia too.
They counted land there by the square mile. Farms there were bigger
than European principalities. The girl must be twenty-four or
twenty-five years of age by now. Not too young for him. He was not
yet sixty and in remarkably good shape; still young enough to
father a brood of little princes and princesses as long as the wife
was healthy. She was a childless widow. That suited him. He could
not abide other men’s brats and he could never be bothered with
simpering virgins. He preferred his women well-versed in bed;
broken in like his horses.

It was time to rekindle old
family ties.

Dr Watson spotted the Snow
Queen on the far side of the ballroom. She was chatting to a
distinguished foreign-looking chap with silver hair who was wearing
a long-line military jacket in black adorned with a royal blue sash
and decorated with lots of gold braid and several large gold stars
that glittered like a Mayfair Christmas tree. It was probably the
new Russian ambassador he’d heard so much about. In a sea of smart
red military jackets the black stood out with conspicuous
sharpness.

Ploughing through perfume was
like wading through treacle. He by-passed three Cleopatras, six
Marie Antoinettes, two Guineveres, five Helens of Troy, and a lady
wearing a bird cage on her head. The men reeking of Macassar hair
oil were just as bad. There were seven Sun Kings, three Francis
Drakes, and every Knight who ever graced the round table in L’Mort
d’Arthur. He was almost within reach of the Snow Queen when he
bumped into the reincarnation of Blackbeard and took a quick step
back.