The Curse Of The Diogenes Club Read Free Page A

Holmes.” Prince Sergei dropped his spent
cigarette into a vase of pink tulips and gave a confident click of
his boot heels. His departure was as cavalier as his arrival. The
visit raised more questions than it answered.
    How did the prince know his
wife was dead?
    It was either Mr Fisk-Manders
or the maid. Most likely the maid. Russians often bribed servants
to spy on members of their own family. Spying was a national
pastime.
    That would also explain how he
was privy to the death in record time. Mycroft had only learned of
it an hour ago and the Countess only in the last fifteen
minutes.
    The death had been staged to
look like suicide, so suicide would be the official version. Heaven
help them if Prince Sergei was right and the heir to the throne was
having an extra-marital affair with Princess Paraskovia. Bertie was
notorious for his philandering ways, especially with married women,
but they were generally English or Scottish. Their husbands knew
how to play the game. If a husband became aggrieved and insisted on
a divorce a co-respondent could usually be found to step up to
cover for the prince. But Russians were a different kettle of fish
altogether. It was a matter of honour with them that often resulted
in a duel to the death. Heaven help them if Prince Sergei
challenged Bertie to a duel. Heaven help them if Bertie
accepted.
    The Countess waited until she
heard the slam of the door then counted to ten just to make
sure.
    “Strange,” she mused, “but
Prince Sergei didn’t ask to see his wife.”
    “He’s a cold fish. They don’t
call him The Silver Sturgeon for nothing. Are you acquainted with
the prince?”
    “I met him when he visited the
estate of my late step-father in Odessa. He stayed for about a
month but I don’t think you could call it an acquaintanceship. I
was but a child, no more than five.”
    “And the princess?”
    “We never met. I believe she
was born in Belgrade to minor nobility. She was considered a great
beauty and soon gravitated to the court of St Petersburg where she
quickly caught the eye of the prince whose first wife died in
childbirth. Where are the nesting dolls?”
    “Didn’t you leave them on the
dressing table?”
    “Yes, but they’re not
here.”
    Mycroft blasphemed under his
breath then bellowed, “Nash!”
    Feet could be heard running
quickly along the corridor. The Major poked his head in the door a
moment later. “Yes?”
    “Stop Prince Sergei before he
gets to his carriage.”
    The Countess had moved to the
window to peer through the lace curtains. “Too late. He’s getting
into his carriage as we speak.”
    “Dammit!” blasted Mycroft.
“Never mind, Nash – as you were.”
    The door closed and Mycroft
went back into the bathroom to look once more at the dead body, as
if hoping it might all be a bad dream and the princess might wake
up at any moment. He seemed, dare she say it, lacking his usual
composure. The Countess wondered if Princess Paraskovia meant more
to the civil servant than he cared to admit. Or was it the Russian
prince who tested Mycroft’s equanimity? Something had definitely
got under his skin.
    Why was he treating this death
with such sensitivity? It seemed more than just a matter of
delicate diplomacy. It was as if he was taking it personally.
    He was gazing strangely at the
lifeless face, a far-away look in his eyes. “Can I ask you to
please check the body one more time? I will wait in the other room.
I don’t know what I expect you to find.”
    Obligingly, the Countess
checked the corpse thoroughly to see if anything else might be
lodged in any orifices. She then checked the up-pinned hair and
felt something odd. Carefully, she extracted a handful of curious
bits from amongst the up-pinned bunch of honeyed curls. Mycroft was
sitting on the bed waiting for her to emerge.
    “Find anything?”
    “Yes.” She showed him a handful
of white, mottled, leprous peelings.
    “What on earth is it?”
    “Bits of birch bark.”
    “Birch