The Curse Of The Diogenes Club by Anna Lord Page A

is a good indication two people
emerged from the bed.”
    “Anything else?” prompted
Sherlock, smiling proudly.
    “I have saved the best for
last. Make of it what you will. The princess’s hair was up-pinned
to save it getting wet. It indicated she was preparing to take a
bath. But recall that she was wearing a pearl and diamond choker
and some valuable rings. Tucked into her up-pinned hair was a small
handful of birch bark.”
    Sherlock clapped gleefully.
“Oh, excellent! Excellent!” he sang happily.
    Everyone else, apart from
Mycroft who had already had the theory of the birch peelings
explained to him, looked baffled.
    “Please explain,” invited
Sherlock, who could see that the Countess understood the spiritual
significance of the birch.
    “Slavs believe the souls of the
dead inhabit birch trees. I think that whoever placed the birch
bark into the princess’s hair did so because they wanted her soul
to be connected to a sacred place.”
    “That means the murderer had an
understanding of Slavic folklore,” said Dr Watson who had only just
recovered from hearing the word dildo spoken out loud in mixed
company.
    “That cuts out General de
Merville, Sir James Damery and the Prince of Wales,” reasoned Major
Nash.
    “And we can eliminate Freddy
Cazenove,” added Colonel Moriarty dryly, “because he has been
promoted to the Transvaal.”
    “That leaves Prince Sergei,”
concluded Sherlock, going along with the main theory for now. “But
would the prince really kill his estranged wife because she was
conducting an illicit affair? I believe everyone in Russia conducts
illicit affairs. No, no, the simplest explanation is that she did
commit suicide and she put the birch bark in her own hair as she
pinned it, and ran her own bath and did not need rose petals and
unguents because she knew she would not be going anywhere
afterwards, and she wore her best jewels because, well, that’s what
a vain rich woman would do.”
    “She was not vain!”
snapped Mycroft.
    “It is my understanding all
princesses are cut from the same vain cloth.”
    “Ultracrepidarianism!”
    Sherlock laughed dismissively,
incensing his brother further.
    “You have no idea what you’re
talking about!” shouted the elder.
    Sherlock ignored the insult. “I
think it is clear she understood the repercussions of having a
child out of wedlock and decided to end it all when her lover let
her know he would not be acknowledging the baby.”
    “You don’t even know if there
was a lover!”
    “Oh, there was a lover all
right – he was in the bed when the prince showed up out of the
blue, probably using his own key which he would have acquired at
some earlier time either from the maid or Mr Fisk-Manders. The
lover disappeared into a dressing room to pull his trousers on. He
didn’t wait to listen to the heated exchange between prince and
princess. He high-tailed it out of Clarges by the back door so as
not to be discovered.”
    Mycroft was flushed to the
gills and frothing apoplectically. “Shut up! Why don’t you! Just
shut up and go back to Sussex! You’re not fit for anything except
those stupid bees! Get out! Get out everyone! Get out and leave me
alone to think!”

6
Nash and
Moriarty
     
    Sherlock and Dr Watson took a
hackney cab to number 221B Baker Street. Neither spoke for the
duration of the journey. The doctor was now feeling gobsmacked as
well as groggy. The vehemence of the tone had shocked him. He put
the violent outburst down to the horror of knowing innocent lives
had been lost. Mycroft had a lot on his conscience and yet none of
it had been his fault.
    Sherlock lapsed into one of his
introspective silences.
    Ne ultra crepidam
judicaret…rubbish!
    The Countess waved them off
then went to locate her maid. Xenia was helping Miss de Merville
tend to the wounded, though several doctors had arrived on the
scene to see to the serious cases and all that was left were some
minor cuts and scrapes.
    As Sherlock had pointed