from the lake up to the pavilion to
help put out spot fires.
Fireworks continued to boom and
blaze luridly across the cold black sky and most people didn’t know
whether the glorious unreality of it all was a dream or a
nightmare.
Nash and Moriarty began the
search for the Countess. She wasn’t among the injured on the lawn.
The serious casualties had been taken to the guardroom. The dead
had been taken to the stable block. Moriarty checked the former;
Nash the latter. Fearing the worst, they met up ten minutes later
at the front of the pavilion.
Nash’s voice crackled with
indignation. “She’s not in the stable. The tack room is empty – was
the pirate one of your so-called friends?”
Moriarty summoned all his
willpower and ignored the accusation; his tone was tense and
strained and hanging by a thread. “She’s not in the guardroom
either and I swear I have no idea who that pirate was. I saw him
earlier and tried to follow him but he gave me the slip. Do you
think he’s our bomb man?”
With his mind now splintering
off in a hundred different directions like those fireworks, Major
Nash was about to reply when he remembered he hadn’t seen Mycroft
Holmes all night and that the first bomb had taken off the roof of
a dome near to where he was holed up. “I have to check something,”
he said urgently, berating himself for getting sucked into a duel
with Jim when he had more important things to do. “Find that
fucking pirate!”
Major Nash ran back inside the
pavilion, crossed the foyer, hurdled chunks of plaster and
fragments of wood, crunched broken glass in the ballroom, and raced
straight up the staircase at the far end of the dance floor.
Moriarty wondered where to
start looking. If the pirate was the bomb man he would be long gone
by now unless he was setting off a second round of bombs inside the
pavilion. He raced back inside in time to see the major mounting
the stairs like a man on a mission and decided to follow.
Major Nash reached the top of
the stairs and disappeared behind a red velvet curtain. Moriarty
presumed the curtain hid a broom cupboard. He hadn’t seen anyone
going that way all night. Behind the curtain was a narrow, dimly
lit passage. At the end of the passage was a door that appeared to
be locked from the inside.
Moriarty watched the major draw
his weapon, shoot the lock off and use his boot to kick the door
in. The action had been bold and deft. Moriarty had clearly
underestimated his rival; all those apocryphal stories about
Khartoum and the Suez came back to him. Nash was no paper-shuffler
in the War Office.
What the major expected to find
inside the room intrigued Moriarty no end. He crept down the
passage, pressed himself against the wall in order to listen, and
got the shock of his life when he heard the voice of the
Countess.
5
The Holmes
Boys
“Major Nash!” she gasped when
he burst into the room.
Ready to blow someone’s head
off, the major didn’t really know what to expect when he kicked the
door in – so many different and dangerous scenarios had flitted
through his head as he bolted up the stairs - but the sight that
greeted him left him feeling punch-drunk.
Mycroft Holmes was seated in a
wing chair, a cigar in one hand and a glass of port in the other,
acting as if nothing untoward had happened, yet shards of glass
littered the floor. Discounting the broken windows and the smashed
door, the room was otherwise intact.
Seated opposite him in a
matching wing chair was Dr Watson wearing a Musketeer outfit; the
same one that had adorned Moriarty at the start of the ball. The
doctor appeared a little groggy, most likely from the after-effects
of the sedative.
Standing behind Dr Watson’s
chair was the Countess. Her kokoshnik was in place but her hair was
mussed and her snow-white gown was blood splattered, but she was in
one piece. Thank heaven! She was holding a muff pistol which was
aimed straight at his heart.
But it was the sight of the
fourth person
help put out spot fires.
Fireworks continued to boom and
blaze luridly across the cold black sky and most people didn’t know
whether the glorious unreality of it all was a dream or a
nightmare.
Nash and Moriarty began the
search for the Countess. She wasn’t among the injured on the lawn.
The serious casualties had been taken to the guardroom. The dead
had been taken to the stable block. Moriarty checked the former;
Nash the latter. Fearing the worst, they met up ten minutes later
at the front of the pavilion.
Nash’s voice crackled with
indignation. “She’s not in the stable. The tack room is empty – was
the pirate one of your so-called friends?”
Moriarty summoned all his
willpower and ignored the accusation; his tone was tense and
strained and hanging by a thread. “She’s not in the guardroom
either and I swear I have no idea who that pirate was. I saw him
earlier and tried to follow him but he gave me the slip. Do you
think he’s our bomb man?”
With his mind now splintering
off in a hundred different directions like those fireworks, Major
Nash was about to reply when he remembered he hadn’t seen Mycroft
Holmes all night and that the first bomb had taken off the roof of
a dome near to where he was holed up. “I have to check something,”
he said urgently, berating himself for getting sucked into a duel
with Jim when he had more important things to do. “Find that
fucking pirate!”
Major Nash ran back inside the
pavilion, crossed the foyer, hurdled chunks of plaster and
fragments of wood, crunched broken glass in the ballroom, and raced
straight up the staircase at the far end of the dance floor.
Moriarty wondered where to
start looking. If the pirate was the bomb man he would be long gone
by now unless he was setting off a second round of bombs inside the
pavilion. He raced back inside in time to see the major mounting
the stairs like a man on a mission and decided to follow.
Major Nash reached the top of
the stairs and disappeared behind a red velvet curtain. Moriarty
presumed the curtain hid a broom cupboard. He hadn’t seen anyone
going that way all night. Behind the curtain was a narrow, dimly
lit passage. At the end of the passage was a door that appeared to
be locked from the inside.
Moriarty watched the major draw
his weapon, shoot the lock off and use his boot to kick the door
in. The action had been bold and deft. Moriarty had clearly
underestimated his rival; all those apocryphal stories about
Khartoum and the Suez came back to him. Nash was no paper-shuffler
in the War Office.
What the major expected to find
inside the room intrigued Moriarty no end. He crept down the
passage, pressed himself against the wall in order to listen, and
got the shock of his life when he heard the voice of the
Countess.
5
The Holmes
Boys
“Major Nash!” she gasped when
he burst into the room.
Ready to blow someone’s head
off, the major didn’t really know what to expect when he kicked the
door in – so many different and dangerous scenarios had flitted
through his head as he bolted up the stairs - but the sight that
greeted him left him feeling punch-drunk.
Mycroft Holmes was seated in a
wing chair, a cigar in one hand and a glass of port in the other,
acting as if nothing untoward had happened, yet shards of glass
littered the floor. Discounting the broken windows and the smashed
door, the room was otherwise intact.
Seated opposite him in a
matching wing chair was Dr Watson wearing a Musketeer outfit; the
same one that had adorned Moriarty at the start of the ball. The
doctor appeared a little groggy, most likely from the after-effects
of the sedative.
Standing behind Dr Watson’s
chair was the Countess. Her kokoshnik was in place but her hair was
mussed and her snow-white gown was blood splattered, but she was in
one piece. Thank heaven! She was holding a muff pistol which was
aimed straight at his heart.
But it was the sight of the
fourth person
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