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Conquests
and could pick up some ancient mystical connection at will.
    His voice was imbued with a
soft Irish lilt, playful and ironic. There was nothing harsh or
discordant in the tone, nothing dangerous or menacing behind his
words. He had milky blue eyes, like translucent glass with a drop
of summer sky in them. His head was bald. Now, there are some women
who do not like bald men, but the Countess was not one of them. A
bald head reminded her of other appendages that stimulated feminine
imagination. He was not exactly handsome but what he lacked in
looks he made up in personal presence. And in men that counted for
more.
    He introduced himself and she
pretended she hadn’t heard the name before. He played along, though
she got the impression he didn’t believe it for a moment. He did
not attempt to flirt with her – that’s probably why he felt like a
childhood friend. Friends understood each other. They did not play
emotional games. Their rapport was natural and comfortable and
devoid of artifice. Within a few minutes of meeting he had
discovered several crucial things: her name, the fact she had been
married for three years to an Australian, that fact she was
independently wealthy, that she had just recently returned to the
continent, that she was raised in Ukraine, the step-daughter of the
Count of Odessos, had travelled most of the world with her
step-aunt, Countess Zoya Volodymyrovna, and that she was fiercely
intelligent.
    They sat on a garden bench out
of the wind, though the walled garden was fairly sheltered already.
She learned he was born the youngest of three brothers. The other
two were dead. He hailed from an impoverished Irish family whose
wealth was being restored after decades of destitute penury. He was
currently restoring his mother’s family seat, Ballyfolly Castle,
which had been nothing but a ruin for several generations. He made
her promise if she was ever in Ireland to make a visit. He was
fiercely proud.
    “Isambard is an unusual choice
of name for an Irishman,” she observed.
    “We are an unusual Irish
family,” he parried lightly. “All three brothers were christened
James. James Hieronymous Moriarty. James Vercengetorix Moriarty.
James Isambard Moriarty. Our pater believed it would force us to
toughen up.”
    “And did it?”
    “To be sure!” he laughed loud
and long. “We stood up to the bullies and my two siblings excelled
at their lessons, particularly in spelling. My eldest brother was a
mathematical genius, my second was a great musician and composer
able to harness the musical spheres, as for me, well, modesty
forbids me to sing my own praises. What sort of man would I be if I
boasted of my achievements upon our first meeting?”
    She had been prepared to
dislike him intensely. His eldest brother had been her father’s
arch nemesis, responsible for hounding him to his death in
Switzerland. She had warned herself against finding anything good
in him. But the inescapable fact was he was surprisingly easy to
like. He came across as so honest and sincere she believed that if
she asked him point blank about the death of Sherlock he would
probably tell her exactly what had happened and why. But she bit
her tongue.
    The Singing Wolf appeared
briefly on her balcony. She was once again wearing a black
peignoir, a diaphanous garment that conjured up a magical vision in
the pearly light of morning.
    Prince Orczy affected a mock
salute in their direction as he hurried down the steps that led to
the gated pillars. His undue haste told them he was probably on his
way to the same baccarat table he had been forced to retire from
prematurely the previous evening.
    More languidly, the other two
male guests emerged from the dining room and found a pocket of
sunshine on the slate-paved terrace where they sat down to enjoy a
leisurely cigarette.
    “Shall we make one more circuit
of the garden before we join Baron Reichenbach and Herr von Gunn?”
suggested Colonel Moriarty, gallantly offering