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plagued her waking hours. It
followed her in the dark as she moved restlessly to the window to
watch the storm sweep across the sky, as she tossed a log on the
fire where the dying embers glowed faintly red, as she paced the
elegant bedchamber and fretted about the mental health of her
travelling companion. What would be his reaction when he heard the
name Reichenbach? What would be his over-reaction when he heard the
name Moriarty? Would he insist on catching the first ferry back to
England? Would he attempt to avenge his old friend?
    Morning broke the back of the
storm and the day dawned at peace with itself. The same could not
be said of the Countess. Lack of sleep had her nerves stretched on
tenterhooks, and though she was no coward, she could not bear the
thought of an ugly scene so early in the day. She requested
breakfast in bed and pondered the likelihood of a violent
confrontation in the dining room. But neither Xenia nor Fedir
brought tidings of anything untoward.
    “Where is Dr Watson?” she
finally asked after she’d fortified herself with a cup of tea.
    Fedir informed her that Dr
Watson had slept soundly and breakfasted early and was taking a
walk to le phare . Xenia added that she heard him telling the
concierge he had always been fascinated by lighthouses and would
not return until midday and to reserve a table for lunch.
    “Is there anyone in the dining
room at present?”
    “Yes,” replied Fedir. The gist
of his monologue was that four men were taking their breakfast.
They appeared to know each other well and seemed to be on very good
terms.
    This news should have pleased
the Countess but it made her feel uneasy. What could the four men
have in common? What thread connected them? A penniless playboy
prince, a munitions manufacturer, a Prussian with military ties and
an Irish colonel seemed an odd assortment? It was the last man who
interested her the most. Probably because she had met the others
and thus her curiosity was settled. The three she had met had come
across as charming and intelligent, endowed with good humour and
good manners, and restraint, yes, the Prussian and the German had
handled the misunderstanding at the roulette table with admirable
aplomb. As for Prince Orczy, at least he had had the good sense to
leave the casino once the glass of champagne washed over him thus
avoiding a heated exchange with the unknown lady in red.
    Her mind wandered. The men came
every year to the Hotel Louve, always at the same time – why? What
was the drawcard? Were they all fools for love? Was the Singing
Wolf the thread that drew them? Did she summon all four
specifically to watch them fawn and flatter, pay court, vie for her
favours?
    She tried to recall what
Professor Moriarty looked like. There had been an unflattering
illustration in one of the chronicles penned by Dr Watson of a
wild-haired, rake-thin man with a cadaverous face and mad staring
eyes. The artist had captured perfectly the look of fanatical
determination one associates with a cold-blooded murderer. She knew
there was a younger brother. Could there also be a nephew? Or
possibly a son!
    She completed her toilette and
tossed up whether to catch up to Dr Watson at the lighthouse or
take a turn around the courtyard garden. Lack of sleep decided for
her. And that’s how she found herself face to face with the fourth
guest.
    He spotted her from his balcony
and acknowledged her with an inclination of his head. By the time
she had completed one circuit of the cherub fountain he was by her
side. He looked at her as if he knew her, as if he saw something in
her features that reminded him of someone else, and the uncanny
thing was that she felt as if she knew him too. They greeted each
other for the first time not as strangers but more like childhood
companions who have not seen each other for untold years, as if the
eons that separated them were but a blink in time, as if they both
just stepped out of the same page of the Irish Book of