Free The Curse Of The Diogenes Club by Anna Lord Page A

sternly.
    “It is elementary. The first
bomb in the dome at the far end of the pavilion was intended to
create a spectacle. Nothing more. The second bomb at the opposite
end likewise. They were intended to make sure everyone ran for
their lives out of the building as fast as they could go through
the dozens of French doors leading from the ballroom and the
banqueting rooms.
    The bomb in the foyer was a
little more serious but the bomb went off under the stairs. It
demolished the staircase but the timbers actually served to smother
what could have been far worse destruction. The solid marble
columns that underpin the dome room easily withstood the blast.
Ceiling plaster caved in and the studio being used by the
photographer was mildly destroyed by the upward force of the blast
but the photographer was fortunately not in his studio.
    Most of the injuries tonight
are due to fragments of broken glass; an unavoidable hazard of
bombs. The third bomb was the serious one and yet few people were
killed. The only people killed outright were those on the stairs;
an unavoidable consequence of bad timing. Had my brother chosen to
occupy the larger sitting room above the foyer which he chose to
make available to the photographer at the last minute because of
its proximity to the stairs he would now be plastered to the top of
a Mughal dome. The last minute decision to take the smaller sitting
room, the room we currently occupy, saved his life.
    Now, what sort of bomb man
plants three bombs at a royal ball-cum-banquet and omits the
ballrooms and the banqueting rooms? And why place the third bomb
under the stairs where it will do the least damage? Either he is
the clumsiest and stupidest bomb man in existence or the intended
target was my brother and the third bomb, intended to destroy the
studio, was moved at the last minute.
    I believe this to be the case
because I recall seeing the folding Kodak camera sitting on the
hall table that centred the foyer where a large urn was filled with
Christmas lilies. I think it probable that someone inadvertently
picked up that camera and moved it to the cupboard under the stairs
just prior to the fireworks. It may have been the studio
photographer who was on his way to the veranda and decided to do
his fellow photographer a favour – saving the camera from being
tampered with, damaged, or even stolen.
    We may never know who moved
that camera but if it had remained on the table I feel certain it
would have blown a massive hole in the ceiling and destroyed the
studio above - the room my brother was intending to occupy.”
    The Countess replaced her muff
pistol in a hidden pocket of her gown. “I recall seeing the Kodak
camera on the table as I was preparing to collect my cloak prior to
the fireworks, but are you saying the bomb man wanted to injure the
fewest number of the guests possible?”
    “Yes, and what does that tell
you?”
    She didn’t need to think for
long. “The bomb man was the photographer, but the man behind the
bomb man was not a saboteur, not a foreign agent, no an
anti-monarchist, not a Fenian. He was probably a guest.”
    Sherlock smiled proudly at her
reasoning as he moved to the door. “Excellent deduction, my dear.”
He raised his voice several decibels. “You may come in now Colonel
Moriarty. Please feel free to join us.”
    The colonel entered looking as
stunned as the others, and not a little sheepish. How the hell Mr
Sherlock Holmes knew he was in the corridor was one of those
mysteries that were never likely to be explained.
    “No need for the gun,” said
Sherlock pleasantly. “You are among friends.”
    Reluctantly, Colonel Moriarty
rehoused his weapon, daring Major Nash to do likewise with a
fiercely challenging look. With equal reluctance, the latter
followed suit.
    Irish eyes scanned the room,
sizing things up – there was the brother of Mr Sherlock Holmes,
presiding in a wing chair. He was clearly the man whom Nash worked
for, but it made no sense. Mycroft Holmes