The Curse Of The Diogenes Club Read Free

in fathering a child to the wife of the Russian
ambassador. Relations have only just resumed civility since the end
of that wretched Crimean War.”
    The Countess moved to the
Chippendale dressing table set in a small bay window screened with
lace curtains. She placed the Matryoshka doll next to the tortoise
shell hair brushes then began to check the drawers, hoping the
contents might reveal something of interest.
    “I presume you have searched
for love letters or a diary?”
    He nodded weakly.
    “No jewellery missing?”
    “I’m afraid we can rule out
burglary,” he said bleakly.
    She glanced at the Matryoshka
doll and recalled the four illustrious names; particularly the one
Mycroft had saved for last. “Hmm, heaven help England if the heir
to the throne murdered, or ordered to be murdered, a member of a
royal Russian house because she was carrying his bastard. I think
the post mortem will reveal she was in the first trimester.”
    Mycroft swallowed hard. “In
that case, there won’t be a post mortem.”
    A sharp rap on the door caused
Mycroft to swivel. When the door opened and Major Nash’s handsome
blond head appeared in the gap, Mycroft was ready to bite it
off.
    “I gave strict instructions not
to be disturbed, Nash.”
    “The Russian ambassador is in
the hall, sir. He would like a word with you on a matter of some
urgency.”
    Major Nash still hadn’t been
informed as to what was going on and his puzzlement was evident,
but he intuited it was something of national importance and acted
accordingly.
    Quickly Mycroft indicated for
the Countess to hide herself in the bathroom. There was a folding
screen which would provide cover but allow her to listen in on the
conversation.
    “Show him in, Nash, and then
stand guard and stay alert. I don’t want anyone else visiting the
third floor. Is that clear?”
    Suavity personified, Prince
Sergei sauntered in looking dangerously dignified, casually smoking
a black Russian cigarette with the air of a debonair aristocrat at
his leisure. The face could have belonged to a man in his forties,
the body to a man in his fifties, but the silver sweep of hair
indicated a man closer to sixty. Here was a well-preserved royal
who clearly shared a bloodline with Tsar Nicholas and had adopted
similar grooming habits, apparent in the tidy moustache and neatly
trimmed beard.
    “How do you do, Mr Holmes,” he
greeted with a clipped Russian accent and a slight bow of his
head.
    “A pleasure to meet you, Prince
Malamtov. How may I help you?”
    “It is how I may help you, Mr
Holmes.” Prince Sergei continued to saunter around the room,
apparently in search of an ashtray. Not finding anything suitable,
he used a vase of hyacinths on the dressing table instead.
    “In what way?” Mycroft was
wondering how much the prince knew when the question was answered
for him.
    “It has come to my attention
that my wife was found dead this morning in her bath.”
    “Who told you that?”
    “What does it matter? I know -
that is all that matters. Why else would I be here?”
    “You don’t sound very concerned
for your wife.”
    “I ceased being concerned for
the princess when she moved out of our marital home and into
this…this place.” His eyes roved around the bedroom with visible
contempt, lingering on the rumpled bed with undisguised
disgust.
    “I repeat, how may I help
you?”
    “And I repeat – it is how I may
help you. You will not yet be aware of the fact – but my wife was
with child. The child she was carrying was not mine. We have not
had conjugal relations for three years. The father of her child was
the Prince of Wales. This information could be very damaging to our
respective governments. I will leave it with you to handle the
information as you see fit from this point on. I have been informed
you can be relied upon to do the right thing.”
    “Are you saying Scotland Yard
should bring in a finding of suicide?”
    “I am saying I leave it in your
capable hands, Mr