The Styrian Curse

The Styrian Curse

ANNA LORD

Book Twelve

Watson & The Countess Series

Copyright © 2016 by Anna Lord

Melbourne, Australia

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any

form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information

storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations

embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are

used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is

purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Table of Contents

1 Wolfsbane

2 Evening Wolf

3 Wolf-riding

4 Waldenwulf

5 Dandy Horse

6 Wolf-charmer

7 Hounds of God

8 Craving

9 Wunderkammer

10 Ravishment

11 Gotterdammerung

12 Cry Wolf

13 Kristallnacht

14 Fiat Justitia

1

Wolfsbane

Dr Watson studied the contents of the envelope which had arrived with the breakfast tray. What next! he fulminated. Eye of newt? Tongue of dog? Fenny snake? What is this? Dried hemlock? Desiccated foxglove?

Wolfsbane, she said.

Bleached sunlight burned through the lattice shade overhanging the private balcony that overlooked the Pyramid of Giza. The morning air was intoxicated with jasmine, citrus and oleander – sweet, tart, and poisonous. Orange marmalade and yellow butterballs resembled the amber beads gracing her slender neck. They looked delicious enough to eat…Good grief! Weeks of sweltering heat were causing him to hallucinate. Her up-pinned brunette mane recalled last night’s chocolate fondant. Her lips were the colour of watermelon.

Occult detectives, he grumbled, who coined that unfortunate term?

I believe it was Agrippa in one of his penny-per-line stories.

Well, it makes us sound like a pair of table-knockers. We are starting to attract lunatics.

Elegant brunette brows formed a sharp pleat above a pair of penetrating blue-grey eyes. Hmm, no accompanying letter. Not much to go on. And yet it is clearly addressed: Mayfair Mews, London, Great Britain. Then re-addressed: The Mena House, Cairo, Egypt. Even my name is correctly spelled: Countess Varvara Volodymyrovna.

Without listening to a single word, he pivoted on his heel, disappeared, and returned with the waste paper basket from under the Egyptian-style escritoire in the adjoining room. Get rid of it before it does someone a mischief, he directed, thrusting the basket front and centre.

Obligingly, Countess V consigned the envelope and its contents to the rubbish bin of history and picked up the teapot. "Crocodile Tears Tea is a refreshing brew, n’est-ce pas? Shall I refresh your cup while you are on the boil?"

Sherlock’s company had inured him against sarcasm in all its myriad subtleties. He managed to ignore the gibe despite the fact he’d slept badly and was feeling edgy. His mind was jumping from one thing to the next as he scanned for his cup and saucer. Oh, that’s right – he’d deposited it on the escritoire.

Fame! he harrumphed. Who needs it! Just as well we’ll soon be losing ourselves in the alleyways and souks of Constantinople. In less than one hour we’ll be sailing to Byzantium. Give me anonymity any day!

They were starting to sound like an old married couple. She was starting to worry about his health… and his weight. This morning she noticed he’d loosened his belt buckle one notch. It might not hurt to cut back on the sugar.

The deck chairs around the swimming pool are filling up already, she commented airily, steering the conversation in a bland direction as she refreshed his cup.

Ah, yes! he expostulated, running a rummy finger around the inside of the starched white noose circling his neck. The daily scramble for a deck chair. One more thing I will be happy to see the back of. There are never enough of the dratted things. The sun hasn’t even cleared the yardarm. Let’s hope the SS Marmora has more chairs than passengers. With a practised gesture he flipped his fob watch and checked the time while it was still dangling between pocket and palm. He didn’t want to miss the boat. He needed a holiday from this latest holiday. But first there was the rigmarole called ‘packing’ to get through. Are your bags ready to go? The porter should be along any minute. Crocodile Tears… really quenching… but… Did you forget to add sugar?"

White tea doesn’t need sugar. It ruins the delicate taste. As for the bags, Fedir is lining them up in the hall from largest to smallest as we speak. Xenia is counting to make sure they are all there. It’s a time-worn ritual. They never vary. I try not to interfere. They know what they’re doing.

A sharp rap at the door had him hurrying to open it. Was it just his heat-addled brain or were they were starting to sound like an old married couple? The thought rattled him no end. He expected to see Fedir to say the bags were all accounted for, or perhaps the hotel porter to say he was now taking them downstairs – four travel trunks, eleven valises, eight hat boxes. The dratted things multiplied every time they moved to a new city. And that was only the summer wardrobe. Just as well she wasn’t his wife. He’d be tempted to reprimand her spending habits.

It was the concierge, a punctilious chap with pomaded black hair and a tortured moustache. Good morning, Dr Watson. I have a second letter for Countess Volodymyrovna. It arrived last week while you were in Philae. I kept it for you in a special box but the night manager removed it without my knowledge and it only just came to my attention this minute. I have reprimanded him severely. It appears this second letter has also been chasing the Countess for some time. He gave an unctuous smile and bowed oilily.

Dr Watson glanced at the postmarks: Vienna, London, Paris, Venice…Cairo. He hoped it wasn’t anything important. This one had a wax seal that looked official. There was a fancy W inside the red splodge.

She was scanning death notices in the Cairo Gazette. Was that the porter?

It was the concierge. He found another letter that has been trying to catch up to you. Where did you put my cup of tea?

I believe you deposited it on the escritoire when you went to answer the door.

Right-ho.

Mystery solved. A cursory glance at the distinctive cursive handwriting with the loopy tails and the W gracing the wax seal, and the mystery of this sender was solved too.

"Quelle surprise! she gushed happily. It’s from a girl I befriended at finishing school. Mignon de Wissing. Her parents died in unusual circumstances, leaving her orphaned at a young age. We consequently bonded like a pair of kindred spirits the moment we met. Her father’s best friend became her legal guardian and took her in as his ward. I read in the social pages last May that she had married him. She is now Baroness von Waldenwulf."

Using a greasy butter knife to crack the wax seal, she extracted a gilt-edged invitation calligraphied in gold. How delightful! She has invited me to be the godmother of her firstborn child, a baby girl, born in February. The babe is three months of age. Zut! The Christening is this month. Next week, in fact!

She didn’t need to look at his pursed lips and bothered brow to know how disappointed he would be if they didn’t sail to Constantinople. I will telegraph that I am heartened she honoured me…but I cannot possibly attend at such short notice, and follow up with an expensive gift.

He decided to appear interested and sympathetic. Where is the Christening taking place?

Styria - between Vienna and Graz. There’s a huge castle. How did Mignon describe it? Oh, you know the sort of thing – an architectural marriage between Mad Ludwig’s baroque fantasy and a Germanic fairy tale.

He could just picture it – a turreted monstrosity perched on a mountain top like a hairy wart on the end of a stuck-up nose. The Christening: one of those pompous affairs; stiff and formal; full of religious swagger. And afterwards, a bunch of old fogies, von this and von that, with blue and red sashes jabbering away in foreign tongues about wild boar hunts and winter balls in St Petersburg. The husband had to be fifty or sixty. It was on the nose – that sort of thing. A man who became the guardian of his best friend’s daughter had an obligation to look out for the girl and find her a suitable husband, not seduce her and drag her off to his four poster mattress. These Teutonic bluebloods really took the cake! It was all about aristocratic bloodlines with them. He took an instant dislike to the chap. Best to steer clear of Styria. Sounds lovely. A shame we have other plans.

She was skimming the letter tucked in with the invitation. Listen to this!

Uh-oh! The voice was starting to sound excited. It didn’t bode well. He began preparing a firm response in the event she changed her mind on the spur of the moment – something that had happened more than once. He aimed a surreptitious glance at his fob watch and shuffled his feet. They really should get going or they would never get to the dock in time. Most of the calash drivers liked to take the roundabout route through the marketplace to increase their fare.

Baron Ludovic von Waldenwulf is patron of the Styrian Olympic team, she continued to gush. Athletes from the archery and fencing squads who will be attending the Summer Games in Paris next month will be undertaking final preparations at the castle. The baron’s equerry, who has just finished overseeing the fitness regimen for the equestrian team, will be in charge of the athletes.

Olympics – that garnered his attention! That Coubertin chap is an absolute champion for promoting the modern games as far as I am concerned. He deserves his own gold medal. The 1896 Games in Athens were a spectacular success and now that the 1900 Games will coincide with the Paris Fair I’m betting they will surpass all expectation. And this should please you - women athletes are being encouraged to participate for the first time ever in the spirit of equality. The twentieth century is really paving the way for social change.

As for his personal fitness, well, the less said the better. He had started to stack on the weight lately - although it might just be that his leather belt had shrunk in the heat – nonetheless, he wouldn’t mind taking part in a professional fitness program one of these days. Sound of body, sound of mind - had always been his motto. Does your friend mention the name of the equerry?

Count von Kramm.

He almost gave himself whiplash when his neck acted like a rotating piston and hot air whooshed out of his lungs. Say that again!

Count von Kramm – have you heard of him?

Not only have I heard of him – he was a character in one of my stories.

Isn’t that frowned upon? Using the name of an actual person, I mean.

The name was a fiction, but not concocted by me.

She aimed a measured glance at the angle of the sun and leapt to her feet. Panic set in as she rushed to grab her straw chapeau, her lace gloves, and her reticule. "Allons-y! Look at the yardarm! You can explain what you mean in the calash. We don’t want to be late or the SS Marmora will sail without us."

They were halfway across the room when she back-tracked, snatched the envelope out of the waste paper basket and caught up to him at the door.

What are you doing now? he barked, scooping up his Panama hat and their boat tickets. Leave that poisonous rubbish where it belongs.

I know who it’s from and it’s not a lunatic.

How? Who?

"I’ll tell you later…On-y-va!"

As they hurried down the stairs and through the massive ogee arch that led to the busy foyer of the hotel she began humming some lyrics: Aconitum is the genus name; Though there be a host of others, poison all the same; Monkshood, blue rocket, wolfsbane; Pick the purple and grow insane…

He admired people who could make up rhymes on the spot. Murray, the orderly who saved his life, had been able to do it at the drop of a hat – kept the poor blighters in the infirmary entertained for hours. He wondered what Murray was doing now. He had lost touch with too many of his old chums – Thurston, Stamford... Did you just make that up?

No, I just remembered it from my days at the Swiss finishing school. The gardener used to sing it in the autumn to remind the girls not to pick wolfsbane in the forest: When the harvest moon is round and mellow, beware the eyes queer and yellow.

Omnes angeli, boni et mali, ex virtute naturali habent protestatum transmutandi corpora nostra…

Bishop Wenceslas concluded the private morning mass with the warning words from Saint Thomas Aquinas that all angels, good and bad, have the power of transmutating our bodies. What was happening in the forests of Styria was not unbelievable to those who believed in avenging angels.

From his lofty perch at the top of the pulpit, he cast an eagle eye over the noble congregation: his host Baron Ludovic von Waldenwulf, the ageing aristocrat of this fairy tale fiefdom living out his twilight years in mythological grandeur; the indecently young wife, pale and perpetually twirling the gold wedding band that made her rich beyond her wildest dreams; the moustache-tweaking Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, the personification of sexual circumcision and thwarted ambition; his love-denying goddess, Princess Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meiningen, a voluptuous Rhinemaiden with unnatural cravings; and the conceited, cynical, charismatic Baron Adelbert Gruner, rumoured to have murdered both his wives.

Let slip the Hounds of God…

The Cairo dock was an exercise in colonial chaos. Calashes disgorging passengers by the score were attempting to manoeuvre around luggage trolleys and crates of souvenirs. It was de rigeur to own an Egyptian room and unrolling parties were still all the rage in London. Anything wrapped in mummy cloth was snapped up and shipped out. Lucky he got in early.

Unsurprisingly, between the hotel and the dock their well-laid plans had been turned on their head. Forget the SS Marmora, they were now sailing on a French mail boat, referred to as a paquebot, to Trieste, not in the comfort of first class but in a cabin the size of a postage stamp. From there it would be the train to a place called the Semmering Pass and then by carriage to Castle Waldenwulf.

The Countess was currently with the captain sending a telegraphic message to arrange the above and to let her friend know they were on their way. Dr Watson didn’t ordinarily gate-crash Christenings but a man didn’t get too many chances to hobnob with Olympic athletes.

But the real clincher had been the noble names of two of the godparents: the Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, soon to be the King of Bohemia, and his esteemed fiancée, Princess Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meiningen.

The regal pair would be familiar to anyone who had perused his story A Scandal in Bohemia. The case actually took place in July 1888 (not published until 1891) and like his readers he had assumed the happy couple had married eleven years ago (almost coming up for twelve years now) as soon as Sherlock had sorted the hush-hush case of the compromising photograph in the hot little hands of the inimitable Miss Adler, but the clever princess had heard a rumour about the hot little hands and had decided to make her fiancé prove his fidelity. They were finally tying the knot this year on the Grand Duke’s forty-second birthday. The Grand Duke was currently forty-one years of age and the Scandinavian princess had reached the ripe old age of twenty-six. Yes, she had been a mere fifteen when first betrothed. Not unusual in royal circles. Best to get the deal done early when the prospective brood mare did not resemble a horse.

Who is the fourth godparent? he enquired with avid interest, relishing the idea of being able to tell Sherlock he’d crossed paths with the Grand Duke. Sherlock was usually the one to hob-nob in esteemed circles, and though the great detective fell short of kow-towing and kissing forelocks, a noble title never failed to garner his interest, and it wasn’t merely related to the prospect of decent remuneration. He was a monarchist at heart.

The paquebot pulled anchor. The Countess tossed handfuls of piastres to the dusty urchins lining the Cairo dock. Squeals of joy drowned out the crank of rusty chains.

Baron Adelbert Gruner.

Hmm, the name doesn’t ring a bell. I suppose he’s an old acquaintance?

A nuanced roll of blue-grey eyes said it all. Despite what you may think I have not personally met every nobleman in Europe.

I say, I hope I’m not out of my depth: Grand Duke, princess, count, countess, two barons and a baroness! If this Christening were a game of cards I’d be the Jack, or maybe the Joker! He gave a throttling laugh. Over the years he’d come to suspect Sherlock of being not only a monarchist but a bit of a snob, though the great detective would have denied it vehemently and cited the time he had asked only for Mrs Irene Norton’s ( nee Adler’s) photo as payment and overlooked the Grand Duke’s handshake when he proffered it. He was probably secretly chuffed his daughter was not only a countess, but the off-spring of ‘a woman who stood head and shoulders above any queen’. Yes, they were Sherlock’s exact words.

The paquebot built up a good head of steam as they chugged down the Nile.

I think you’ll fit in perfectly, she reassured. "You are mad keen on the Olympic Games and according to Mignon’s letter, Baron Gruner has been coaching the archery team while her husband has been coaching the fencing team. The two barons are sportsmen first and noblemen second. The conversation will be right up your alley. What about that equerry, Count von Kramm? You didn’t tell me how he came to be in A Scandal in Bohemia. I recall the other characters in your story but not him."

It was right at the start. When the Grand Duke introduced himself to Sherlock he used an alias – Count von Kramm. I never realised until today that it was an actual person. I always believed the name to be fictitious. The Grand Duke must have borrowed the name of his friend’s equerry to avoid any scandal coming back to bite him on the royal proverbial.

Sighing, he watched the Citadel of Saladin melt into the heat haze and felt as if he was melting too as he mopped his brow with his handkerchief. I say, the Styrian countryside will be bucolic at this time of year. The forest will be lush and shady and the weather should be pleasantly cool. I’ve had enough of the heat.

No regrets about the last minute change of plan?

None at all, said he cheerfully. Constantinople has been around for thousands of years. Another week or two won’t make any difference to the Hagia Sofia or the Topkapi Palace. How’s your cabin?

Cramped.

Konrad von Kramm allowed his eyes to rove over the faded tapestry nailed to the wall behind his bed. It depicted the Battle of Tolbiac. His ancestors had fought victoriously and won the day. That was in the year 496. Today they were nothing more than footnotes in history, as faded as the warp and weave that held the threadbare scene together, nothing but a blur of greens and browns and dusty pinks.

Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer something else? said the Baron. There’s a fine tapestry in the music room. A summer hunting scene. Gold and silver thread.

He declined. He preferred the old Tolbiac scene. It reminded him how far his family had fallen. He could trace his bloodline back to the Alemmani, the first Celts who settled the land hereabouts, and the independent kings of the fourth and fifth centuries.

It’s a bit grim in here, observed the Baron, who rarely paid a visit. Are you sure you wouldn’t be happier in another chamber with more natural sunlight. There are plenty to choose from. You can take your pick, Konrad.

Once again, he declined. He preferred the room he already had. It was situated near the wunderkammer, a cabinet of curiosities he liked to lose himself in when he had a spare moment, it was neither near the principal apartments nor with the servants. It reminded him that a count was higher than a baron but where there was no wealth and no land, a title was as good as a hollow crown.

The postage-stamp box smelled strongly of salted herring and rum, mostly rum. Countess V removed her lace gloves, extracted the curious envelope with the Viennese postmark, withdrew the little stalk of wolfsbane, deposited it gingerly on the floor, then used her fingernail to separate the gummed edges, carefully separating the folds until she had a single square of paper.

A sprinkling of powdery rouge which clung to the invisible letters scrawled in thick white waxy crayon; blow away the fairy dust away and voila!

It was a trick they invented back at finishing school when they wanted to leave messages for each other which they didn’t want any of the other girls to read, especially that snoopy hypochondriac, Agatha Inchcombe, who promptly reported everything to the school nurse, Sister Brunhilda, a stickler for rules.

Make haste to Waldenwulf. The life of my baby girl is in peril. M

The Countess read the message three times. Mignon de Wissing had never been a girl prone to those monthly feminine vapours that seemed to afflict nine-tenths of the school, especially during sports carnivals but never during dancing lessons. But why wolfsbane? What did it signify? Mignon had never been prone to theatrics either. Sensible and studious was a better description of the delicate slender girl with the strong constitution despite appearances to the contrary. It was a mistake to equate thinness with a lack of robustness. Mignon had never had a sick day all that year, even when snow was thick on the ground and all the girls were coughing and sneezing.

She never shed a tear either. Another fallacy that outer strength signalled inner strength. Weaklings could be stoic too. Mignon was living proof.

With large gooseberry eyes, she always looked slightly startled in that wide, childish way, but you quickly got the impression she was no innocent. Fair-haired, but not that lovely liquid golden blonde, more like silver thread. The silver would probably go grey early. It would make her look older than her years. That’s when age would finally catch up to dear Mignon.

The father had hailed from Silesia, the mother was Swiss. That’s all she knew of her friend’s background. Mignon never liked to talk about her family. She seemed very fond of her guardian. He came to school once to visit his ward. Baron von Waldenwulf was an old-fashioned aristocrat with cropped white hair and a neat white beard, straight-backed with a noble mien; tall, lean and unsmiling.

Strange that Mignon should think of her now, and choose her to be fée marraine to her firstborn child, after all the years. How many? Eight years and no correspondence exchanged in all that time, not a single letter or postcard. And now this desperate cri de coeur.

The shadowside of marriage was a curious thing known only to the two people who shared it to the exclusion of everyone else. The Germans even had a word for it: schattenstiete.

How are you feeling today, Mignon? Ludovic von Waldenwulf entered noiselessly and addressed his young wife with sympathetic courtesy. His voice was soft, kind, indulgent, never censorious, never cross, never bitter, not resentful, disappointed, bored, or ill-tempered.

Stooping, he gently kissed the top of her head.

Smiling chastely, she assured him she was feeling better as she continued to nurse the babe which she insisted on feeding herself despite there being several suitable wet-nurses on hand. The constant feeds seemed to