The Curse of Christmas (32 page)

“No hard feelings, then?”

“None at all, sir. This way, if
you please.”

He didn’t realize just how
hungry he was until he saw the culinary spread in the dining room;
and no idea how hungry he was for the sight of her either until she
appeared as radiant as ever despite a serious lack of sleep. Her
taste in clothes was faultless but today she looked more lovely
than usual in a day dress of red velvet with a high neck, tight
sleeves, and a random scatter of red silk flowers. He had no
intention of spoiling it all by confronting her. He would not
mention the name Inigo Nash even if it killed him to hold his
tongue.

“Good morning, Colonel Moriarty.
Please help yourself to whatever you fancy on the sideboard. I’m
not very hungry this morning, but don’t let me put you off. I
apologise for leaving you so abruptly in Piccadilly last night and
I hope breakfast will make up for my rudeness. I realize now you
were only expressing concern for my well-being. Nevertheless, I had
an appointment that I was eager not to miss. I hope you will
forgive me. Tea or coffee?”

He winced at the unashamed,
almost casual, reference to her tryst as he piled food on his
plate. “Coffee, thank you. And I should not have forced my concerns
on you. I came this morning to apologise. I leave shortly for
Ballyfolly.”

“You hope to be there for
Christmas?”

“It will probably be Boxing Day
before I arrive but as there is no one waiting for me, it will not
matter what day it is.”

She asked him some more about
the renovations to the old castle and expressed a desire to one day
pay a visit. She sounded almost sincere.

“Will you be spending Christmas
Day in London as planned?” He knew Nash wouldn’t be inviting her to
Kent. His family pile was a complete wreck. He’d seen it once – one
of those huge Elizabethan monstrosities with so many Jacobean bits
tacked onto it over the years it ended up looking as picturesque as
a dog’s hind leg.

“I will be leaving shortly for
the countryside,” she trilled.

“Oh?” He shovelled the last of
the eggs, bacon, mushrooms and fried potato into him before his
appetite dulled.

“My two servants spent the night
elsewhere but they have since returned and packing has commenced in
earnest. The invitation was one of those last minute things, the
sort you cannot possibly say no to - I am terribly thrilled.”

She glowed like a woman in
throes of complete infatuation. He began imagining all the nasty
ways he could finish Nash off. It wouldn’t be hard to ambush the
baronet one night in wealds of Kent. Not every kill had to be about
the money.

“A grand country house?” He
managed to get the inflection just right between gobfuls of thickly
buttered toast and gulps of piping hot coffee. “Would I recognise
the name?”

“Oh, no, it is a simple romantic
cottage. I don’t even know if it
has
a name.”

“Not a grand party, then?” Maybe
he could just choke the life out of Inigo with his bare hands.
Strangulation was more personal. He could have the pleasure of
watching the baronet’s blue blood drain from his manly face and
turn deathly white.

“Oh, no, it will be an intimate
gathering.”

Was she deliberately goading
him? He reminded himself to take slow deep breaths. “I think they
are predicting more snow for Christmas.”

“Oh, I do hope so. There is
nothing nicer than being snowed in with people you love.”

That did it! Inigo
fucking
Nash had to go! He drained his coffee and pushed to
his feet. “Thank you for breakfast, Countess. I must take my leave.
I have something important to take care of before departing for
Ireland.”

“I’m so glad we are parting as
friends. I didn’t properly thank you for rescuing me from the fire
cracker man. Have a safe journey.”

He got all the way to the front
door where a small gift wrapped in shiny red paper and tied with a
silver ribbon was sitting on the hall table.

“This is for you,” she said,
practically blushing, waving away the footman. “It is nothing
special. I remembered the name of the tobacconist you favoured in
London. I was passing the other day and thought I’d pop in for some
cigarettes. Merry Christmas, Colonel Moriarty.”

Holding in his hands the only
Christmas present he was going to get this year, he felt
momentarily choked with emotion. The unexpected kindness did
something strange to his sense of perspective and his masterful
self-control. It was not like him to betray a friend, not even when
that friend was the sort he never really liked much anyway, and the
repercussions of what he was about to reveal could prove fatal –
for him personally.

“You asked me not long ago if I
remembered anything about the fire cracker man,” he reminded.
“Well, as I said, I didn’t get a good look at the man, but if you
are still wondering about him you need to ask yourself who profited
by his action?”

On that cryptic note he kissed
her hand and wished her a Happy Christmas, knowing full well if she
figured out what he meant - as she eventually would - he would have
brought the curse of Christmas down upon on his own head.

Forget Major Inigo Nash!
Moriarty now needed to start watching his own back. Better to get
out of London fast and back to Ballyfolly Castle before he ended up
in a watery grave.

The door closed and she fell
against it with a wistful sigh.

Two extremely interesting men in
one morning, it was too much for a young woman who prided herself
on her brains. Maybe Christmas was making her soft in the head. It
was definitely playing havoc with the clockwork of her heart. Not
that she was about to start a dalliance with either man, still, a
widow needed something to fuel her fantasies every now and
again.

When Major Nash’s calling card
was brought up to her boudoir, she had looked twice - a baronet, no
less; now there was a surprise. He had been sent by Mr Mycroft
Holmes. Had she checked the book on Templar lore recently? No, she
had forgotten all about it, besides, the business pertaining to the
heir to the throne had been resolved.

Yes, so it had, but Mr Holmes
was in the process of decamping to Sussex this morning and as he
had left an invitation two days ago inside the book and had not yet
received a reply he was concerned she had not checked it. He had
instructed his ADC to retrieve it and deliver it personally. She
perused the contents in front of him while he waited for an
answer.

Her face immediately lit up.
Tell him YES!

She could have kissed Major Nash
and nearly did. The moment he left, she issued instructions for a
rapid change of plans, flew upstairs, danced several times around
the room and spotted Moriarty from her window. Full of the milk of
human kindness, she invited the Irishman to breakfast. But that
last comment was queer. Typical of him to make her work for the
answer! Who profited? No one profited. The fire crackers had
disrupted the rally but no one…of course!

General de Merville and Viscount
Cazenove!

General de Merville profited
because he could ban his daughter from future rallies. And Viscount
Cazenove profited because he became an instant hero.

Of the two, the latter was more
likely to have instigated the attack. General de Merville was
hardly likely to go to such lengths just so his daughter would
desist from attending future meetings of suffragettes. But Freddy
would profit greatly – he would rise in estimation, not only in the
eyes of his prospective father-in-law but in the eyes of his
prospective fiancé who had hitherto remained cold to consanguine
bliss.

And how did Moriarty put it the
day he rescued her? The two men had been breakfasting at Freddy’s
club when Freddy suddenly decided to go to the rally to hear Violet
speak. What uncanny luck to arrive at the very moment the fire
cracker man throws the first banger! Freddy heroically sweeps
Violet to safety and off they go in his carriage which is
conveniently parked in Pall Mall.

The mortifying thing was that
there was nothing she could do about it. Freddy was too well
connected and she had no proof. So why did Moriarty drop the hint?
How did he fit in with Viscount Cazenove? Had the two men had a
falling out? A falling out over what?

Her Irishman existed on the
edge, always in the shadows. He was dangerous, ruthless, cunning,
and his intentions were anything but noble. He wanted her in his
bed and he wanted her money for his folly.

So, how badly did
she
want him?

Take the train for Eastbourne.
Get off at the wayside station at South Dean. A carriage will be
waiting. Fullworth is a small village with a sheltered cove not far
from Beachy Head and Birling Gap.

Sherlock has taken the liberty
of leasing a cottage with a thatched roof which he thought you
might find novel. It overlooks the village green and is only half a
mile from his residence on the Downs. It is not very large. Don’t
bring more than two servants. Dr Watson is making his own way
there, as am I. We will be staying with Sherlock. Three confirmed
bachelors are best left to muddle around together.

Sherlock will be hosting a
drinks party Christmas Eve. He is not very big on friends. There
will be just the four of us. Nothing formal. If you cannot make it
for Christmas Eve, we will see you Christmas Day. Lunch promptly at
one o’clock. Sherlock has a village woman to do his cooking, a
live-in housemaid and a char who comes daily. It is a very simple
existence as you will observe for yourself.

I might just add a final note.
Sherlock may look different to what you expect. No need to feel
alarmed but it is better to be forewarned.

He provided the two addresses
and signed off with the usual M.

She read and re-read that last
bit as the train chugged into the wayside station. May look
different? No need to feel alarmed? Forewarned? What did that
mean?

Fedir and Xenia were motoring
down in the Peugeot. She thought the Peugeot might make a nice gift
for Sherlock. She wanted something newer anyway, a Lohner-Porsche
Electromobile or Semper Vivus – they looked smart and stylish. Or
perhaps one of those spacious Maldevics built at Granton. She saw
one on the Strand. It looked just like a landau with 5 wheels and
no horses. Sherlock would enjoy tottering around the South Downs in
his own automobile and tinkering with the mechanics.

She had the green velvet smoking
jacket for Dr Watson. He would groan, of course, and then she would
give him the title to Graymalkin. That would shut him up.

She had a crocodile and silver
cigar travel case for Uncle Mycroft. It fit five cigars and was
very tasteful. He would appreciate the quality.

The Mayfair servants would be
glad to partake of Christmas lunch without her. Ponsonby could hand
out the gifts. Miss Pike was thrilled with her new prospects. All
those winter bonnets would be handed out to the girls from the
brothel now in her charge. Mrs Kronski had been arrested by
Lestrade. She tried to protest her innocence but it didn’t last
long. The evidence against her was strong and Reverend Paterson had
offered to act as a witness for the prosecution. Agrippa had been
given the exclusive story. Joff and Crick had not returned to
Crossbones. Sukie and Molly said the two grave-diggers had a stash
of money and a house somewhere in Angel Islington. The baby farm
had been taken over by the pipe-smoking woman who carted the twin
infants under her arms. Baby deaths would continue to increase
until mothers’ could keep and raise their own children in their own
homes. Mrs Aspen was recovering nicely and the campaign for
enfranchisement would soon crank up again. Hopefully, the Prince of
Wales would stay true to his word, but a life of privilege tended
to cause amnesia.

The house sat in the middle of a
small neat garden, though not much of it could be seen at eight
o’clock in the evening. It was double storied flint and brick with
a slate roof, typical of the vernacular of the South Downs. A
ribbon of smoke curled from the chimney stack.

Sherlock was torturing a violin.
She could hear the discordant strains before she even passed
through the garden gate. It was his own trusty instrument, not the
out of tune Stradivarius Dr Watson kept in the sitting room at
number 221B Baker Street to fool visitors.

Full of trepidation now that the
moment had arrived and she was finally going to come face to face
with her father, she paused to muster courage.

The violin torture stopped
suddenly. He must have heard the latch on the ogee gate click back
into place. Courage deserted her but it was too late to turn back
when the door flew open.

“Good evening, Countess
Volodymyrovna. Do please come in.”

Sherlock pronounced her name
exactly as it should be pronounced – the y, y and third o swallowed
up. Trust him to get it right. She wondered if he’d been
practicing.

His appearance shocked her
momentarily and she must have flinched.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said, as
he ushered her in the little sitting room. “And please don’t bother
pretending Mycroft didn’t tell you to brace yourself.”

“Your intolerable, Sherlock,”
grumbled the elder. “Of course I warned her. Did you expect her not
to notice? Really! You have been living too long as a hermit. It
has made you even less tactful, not to mention more
misanthropic.”

Dr Watson, feeling tense and
anxious all evening about how she might react to Sherlock’s
appearance, helped her with her winter coat. “Truce, gentlemen, we
have a lady in our midst and it is Christmas Eve.”

“Jolly right!” huffed Mycroft.
“A glass of port wouldn’t go amiss, Sherlock. Our illustrious guest
looks frozen. Come closer to the fire, Countess. Take this chair.”
He tossed some newspapers on the floor. “I have been recounting
recent events in London to my little brother. He likes to stay
abreast. Congratulations on that Crossbones business. A good result
all round.”