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

was the President of the
Diogenes Club. He was highly respected, but he was no high
government official. Oh, hang on! Bloody good cover for the Secret
Service! No wonder the club was impossible to get into and
membership restricted to one or two men per annum.
    There was Dr Watson looking
battered and bruised. He wanted to apologise for stealing the
doctor’s kilt but he couldn’t find the right words. He would make
it up to him later.
    His eyes met the Countess and
one look told him everything he needed to know. She was relieved he
wasn’t dead. That meant she hadn’t betrayed him to Nash. But even
if she had – it was the reason he was still breathing. If he had
stayed in the dome room they would have been scraping him off the
Mughal roof.
    There was Nash looking bitter
and peeved that he hadn’t left him in the dome room to get blown to
bits by that first bomb. Despite being on the same side they were
never going to fully trust each other. He and Nash always had more
in common than not – poverty, ambition, useless fathers, surviving
on their wits, relying on merit to get promoted – but the Countess
would always come between them now.
    And Mr Sherlock Holmes –
something odd there. It wasn’t just the queer firearms. His left
arm seemed gimpy, and the hook seemed to fit very neatly onto his
leather-gloved hand, and he moved with a springy gait, and he
hadn’t yet removed his eye patch despite the fancy dress party
being over. Where had he been all these years? Tending bees in
Sussex – pull the other one! That Reichenbach business happened
back in 1891 and the year had just ticked over to 1900.
    “I believe you are acquainted
with everyone here,” said Sherlock, “apart from my brother and
myself.”
    “Get on with it, Sherlock!”
reproved the elder sibling. “We don’t have time for long-winded
introductions. This isn’t a social gathering.”
    Sherlock smiled to himself. It
was like old times. Oh, and how he had missed being in the midst of
a life and death adventure, and among such an interesting and
disparate coterie, including his daughter, his best friend, his big
brother, and two up-standing officers of her Majesty’s army.
    “Well, here we are at the
beginning of the twentieth century. Not the most auspicious start
to a new era but let’s see if we can improve on it. Let us put our
heads together. Someone here tonight wished to blow my brother up.
Now, I admit I have often entertained the same wish myself but
family loyalty prevented me acting on it. Obviously no such
sentiment prevented our bomb man. So what could be his motivation?
All ideas will be considered.”
    After a brief interval of
silence Major Nash spoke up. “There’s the forthcoming vote on
changing the constitution of the Diogenes Club.”
    “Yes,” said Sherlock, impressed
by the young man’s suggestion. “If the primus baro is suddenly
eliminated the vote will have to be postponed until such time as a
new primus baro can be sworn in. That could take months and by then
several members may have changed their minds or the amendment to
the constitution might have been quietly dropped. What else?”
    “There’s the question of
forming a regiment of Irish Guards,” offered Moriarty. “It is my
understanding Queen Victoria is in favour of forming an Irish
regiment but the idea is being opposed by several high-ranking
military officers with great influence in court. Now, I do not know
if Mr Mycroft Holmes has any influence in government,” he added
with all honesty, “but if he did then his word might sway the
argument one way or another.”
    “Good, good,” muttered
Sherlock. “Now we are getting somewhere. What else?”
    “There’s the death of Princess
Paraskovia,” suggested the Countess, bracing for a swift rebuke
from Mycroft, but he did not even blink which meant he was in
accord with airing all possibilities. “She was found dead in her
bath this afternoon at Clarges Hotel.”
    Sherlock was taken by