The Reichenbach Curse

The

Reichenbach

Curse

ANNA LORD

Book Thirteen

Watson & The Countess Series

Copyright © 2016 by Anna Lord

Melbourne, Australia

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any

form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information

storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations

embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are

used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is

purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Table of Contents

1 Montgolfier

2 Reichenbachfalle

3 Icarus

4 Summerland

5 Edelweiss

6 The Huntress

7 The Hunter

8 Vertigo

9 Freefall

10 Top of the World

11 Fear of Falling

12 Pinkerton

13 Picnic

14 Gunshot

15 Flight

16 Alpenglow

1

Montgolfier

They must be mad.

Dr Watson was inclined to let the lazy remark wash over him. Our two sleuths were taking their morning constitutional along the lake path that started at the terrace of the Englischer Hof Hotel and returned to it one hour and ten minutes later.

Who must be mad? he responded against his own better judgement, allowing for a healthy pause.

With a whimsical wave of a lace-gloved hand, Countess Volodymyrovna indicated the three hot air balloons floating high above the summer pastures of the Reichenbachtl Valley. Those Montgolfier enthusiasts.

Have you ever been in a hot air balloon? he challenged.

Five times.

Typical! His argument fell flat before it even got airborne. Eagerly, almost hungrily, his eyes followed the blue and gold balloon as it soared over the Swiss Alps like a giant wingless bird of paradise flying over Elysian Fields. The cerulean sackcloth was decorated with astrological symbols as homage to the Montgolfier duo whose very first balloon was similarly decorated. Their father had had the good fortune to own a paper factory, so they were able to employ the renowned wallpaper designer, Reveillon, to decorate their cloud-ship. What an inspiration that turned out to be. Pure genius! The designs on the balloons were as marvellous as the balloons themselves. Extraordinary things – all to do with the science of playfulness!

It’s something I have always wanted to experience.

"Well, now is your chance, mon ami," she replied drily.

You think it dangerous, is that the problem?

"Lots of things are dangerous. Life is dangerous. That thought does not enter into my existential musing. However, I was skimming yesterday’s edition of the Reichenbach Gazette in bed this morning before coming down to breakfast, and I noticed an article about the annual hot air balloon festival. Last year, three balloons fell out of the sky."

That was last year, he tut-tutted, feeling invigorated after a good night’s sleep. As you just pointed out – life is dangerous. There may have been strong winds or the balloons may have been faulty in some respect. You cannot extrapolate from one year to the next.

Well, you know what they say – once is an accident, twice is careless, and thrice is…

Thrice is what?

Deliberate.

Did the article mention how many balloons have fallen out of the sky this year?

No.

Ha! Because there haven’t been any! If any balloons had fallen out of the sky the gazette would have been quick to emblazon it on the front page. You know how much these penny rags thrive on sensationalism. Agreed?

With a tight pursing of lips, she nodded. It really was a beautiful summer’s day – a frisky breeze to ruffle the surface of the lake, the world at peace with itself. It would have been churlish to foment disagreement on such an idyllic day.

Having swooped and won, he savoured the silence. Today, silence was indeed golden…blue and golden. Let’s perch a moment on this garden bench. I want to watch the Montgolfier balloon. It has tipped the summit of that crag and will start its descent any minute now. I’m guessing it will put down in that meadow at the side of the hotel.

Ten blissful minutes passed without speaking. The blue and gold balloon floated among pillowy clouds like a pictorial dream in motion, borne aloft by man’s ingenuity and boyish fancy.

What a lark! he exclaimed enviously.

There’s that woman again.

Engrossed in the cerulean air-ball, he didn’t bother to look. What woman?

The one you pointed out to me last night at dinner. I agree she has the tiniest waist I’ve ever seen for a lady of mature years. How old do you think she is?

Any man who answered such a question really was mad. I’m not going to hazard a guess.

I’d say forty.

I say, the blue and gold balloon has now gone higher than the red and yellow stripy one.

It looks about eighteen inches.

The stripy balloon appears to be coming down first.

It must be horribly painful.

Everyone on the terrace has turned to look.

Vanity.

What?

It’s all about vanity.

It’s about pushing scientific boundaries.

And narcissism.

And sporting boundaries too.

Attention seeking.

What a spectacle.

I don’t know how she even draws breath.

The last bit is what worries me.

I’m surprised she doesn’t faint.

Does it judder?

Not if it’s laced properly.

That would be done at the start…too late after you’ve set off.

Indeed.

It needs to be taut.

Some women even put up with broken ribs.

Broken ribs?

She regarded him keenly. Have you heard one word I’ve said?

Yes, of course I have; touching down – does it jolt much?

Oh! she muttered. That depends on the pilot. Some can land on a handkerchief and you don’t even know you’ve hit terra firma; others bounce along, dragging the gondola along as you cling on for dear life.

The splendour in the sky called him back; his eyes flew heavenward to the chorus of: Bravo! Bravo! Vive le pilot! I say, the stripy balloon is about to touch down on that green patch.

She’s coming this way.

Perfect touchdown.

Don’t stare.

Everyone in the basket is clapping the helmsman for executing a safe landing.

Bonjour, madame.

Bonjour, madame. Bonjour, monsieur.

The Countess waited a few moments then hissed, That was rude on your part.

What was rude?

The lady with the tiny waist just said hello and you totally ignored her.

What lady? he protested. I didn’t see anyone.

She just passed by and greeted us. She must have recognised us from dinner. I think she was hoping to catch your eye.

He had eyes for just one thing. It was like falling in love. The balloons were breathtaking. The green balloon is coming down next. It looks as if it is going right into the lake. Phew! That was close! It’s coming down between the trees. It’s going to land safely on the croquet lawn. He was scanning for the blue and gold air-ball when a short, sharp, violent bang rang out. It made him jump. What was that?

It sounded like a gunshot…but I cannot tell from what direction it came. It had a sort of echo as if…

My God! He leapt to his feet. It’s the blue and gold balloon! It’s falling out of the sky! He began sprinting along the path skirting the lake in the direction of the battalion of trees bordering the tennis court. Someone shot a hole in it!

Fighting fit from their recent sojourn in Styria, he sped away from her like an Olympic athlete racing for gold. She chased after him but he quickly gained speed and ground, sprinting past swathes of dahlias, delphiniums and foxgloves.

Rousseau got it half right. Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains. Woman is born free, and everywhere she is in corsets!

Dr Watson was first on the scene. Bursting a boiler, he had taken the shortcut through the iris allée, leaping linear rainbows like the irrational in pursuit of the ineffable, and was nearing the top of the steps leading to the tennis court, ready to render medical assistance, when the gondola exploded. Fireballs shot out in all directions. A grove of conifers took a direct hit. The enormous balloon was swallowed up by a fiery tongue in one liquid gulp. The tennis net was fried to a crisp and the en tout case beneath it melted. He could feel the radiant heat from a distance of a dozen yards. The blast whacked him full in the face like a burst from a flame-thrower. It scorched his eyebrows and forced him back.

Men and women were screaming in horror. But the panic-stricken cries weren’t coming from the balloon. They were coming from the spectators gathered on the terrace of the hotel. The pitiful wretches in the wicker basket perished instantly; no time to cry for help. They may have died upon impact. No one would ever know.

Two men had by now caught up to him. He recognised one of them at once. It was the organiser of the hot air balloon festival. His photograph and name were splashed across all the promotional posters in the foyer of the hotel: Big game hunter, man’s man – that sort of thing.

Captain Jonty Groote. South African. A sun-tanned, blond-haired, rugged chap of middle years, somewhere between forty and fifty. He walked with a slight limp which did nothing to slow him down and seemed to add to his manly appeal. There was the hint of a life less ordinary; sunsets over the Serengeti, stalking wild prey across the savannah, thrilling stuff, dangerous; derring-do adventures that were fact not fiction.

Captain Groote was nothing if not a man of action and he found a kindred spirit in Dr Watson despite the fact one was probably a Boer sympathiser and the other was not.

No time to waste, my good chap! he directed briskly, like a man accustomed to getting others onside and then giving them orders. There’s a water tank behind that hedge. It’s used for damping down the en tout cas. Help me unloosen the hose. We can put this fire out before it spreads to that hedge and the copse of silver birches.

The rusty tap on the water tank refused to budge. It was only the start of summer and it had probably not been turned since last season. The third man who had rushed to the scene was unable to force it free. Captain Groote took over and had it unscrewed in next to no time, though the effort required for the feat was evident in the strain of muscle and the redness that flooded his face. Water gushed down the hose.

Dr Watson stood at the head and helped direct the water onto the flames. The job was quickly done but the damage to the tennis court was significant. More importantly, and to the doctor’s eternal regret, the hot air balloon, wicker basket, and passengers had been incinerated.

Dr Watson dropped the hose as soon as the water slowed to a trickle. He immediately moved to examine the tragic scene with a medically-trained eye. There was not much to see except charred remains, clouds of acrid smoke and puddles of water. Does anyone know how many poor souls were travelling in the blue and gold balloon?

Three people, replied Captain Groote without hesitation. I can tell you their names too. It was Monsieur Gaillard, Lady Audubon, and Mr Waring.

Pity and dismay struck Dr Watson a double blow. A lady was in the basket?

Lady Fanny Audubon, widow of Lord Alfred who died last year after a long illness. He was a great aficionado of hot air balloons. He came every year with his wife for the festival here in Reichenbach. I knew them both quite well.

Thank goodness it was only three people, said the third man solemnly. And I don’t mean any disrespect to those who just perished, but most of the baskets carry more than three passengers. He extended his hand to Captain Groote. Mr Noel Sturgis from Vancouver in Canada. I’m booked to go up with you this afternoon.

Captain Groote cocked a blond brow. This accident hasn’t scared you off?

Not at all, assured the Canadian employing an oddly detached tone. The green balloon put down safely on the croquet lawn and the striped balloon came down in the long meadow. I have great faith in your ability to bring the basket down, Captain Groote.

Good chap, said the captain heartily, giving the extended hand a robust shake.

I don’t think it was an accident, intervened Dr Watson gravely.

Captain Groote swivelled sharply. What are you saying?

Look what’s left – nothing but ash. Why did the basket go up in flames like that?

It’s the gas inside the envelope, offered the Canadian. That’s what they call the balloon, isn’t it?

Captain Groote nodded. Yes, that’s right.

Dr Watson was shaking his head. "The balloon was deflating the whole time it was coming down. By the time it hit the trees the envelope was almost empty. Besides, gas in a hot air balloon doesn’t explode for no reason."

Captain Groote stared sternly at the ashes. I believe Monsieur Gaillard took a kerosene lamp into the basket against all advice to the contrary. He had an idea that if the gas could be kept warmer for longer, the balloon would travel higher for longer too. It was good in theory but risky. I told him so in no uncertain terms. And Mr Waring was smoking a cigar when he boarded, again, against all advice. The cigar may have ignited the kerosene flame and there you have it.

Dr Watson accepted the kerosene/cigar theory but he knew there was more to this tragedy than the explosion at the end. What about the gunshot?

Captain Groote fixed him with a forbidding stare. What gunshot?

Dr Watson did not back down from the fierce appraisal though he suffered a momentary lapse of conviction. I…I heard a gunshot just before the balloon came down. I think someone shot a hole in it.

Mr Sturgis began nodding earnestly. By Jove! I heard a loud bang too. I was making my way up to the lookout at the top of the rise. I thought it was that Australian chap. The one who does some clay pigeon shooting every morning…

Mr Wally Pyrford, interjected the captain. What a remarkable twang – what do they call it? Strine?

That’s the chap! Awful accent! Bushy red beard! Anyway, I thought it was him. I looked up to see if he’d hit a bull’s eye and that’s when I saw the blue and gold balloon. It was certainly coming down at a rate of knots. Mr Sturgis turned to the captain for confirmation. Did you hear a gunshot too? If all three of us heard it then it’s no accident this balloon, or what’s left of it, fell out of the sky.

The captain’s blond brows contracted and he shook his head adamantly. I didn’t hear a gunshot but then I’ve just recently recovered from a head cold and earache, and I had just stepped inside the tennis pavilion for a moment. I was trying to light a cigarette but the confounded wind kept blowing out my match and I only had one lucifer left. I managed to get a flame going and was just drawing down on the gasper when I heard a whacking great noise which must have been the gondola hitting the tops of the trees. I stuck my head out to see what it was. He turned meaningfully to the doctor and regarded him mistrustfully. You were already standing at the top of the steps, weren’t you?

The observation sounded more like an accusation. Dr Watson tried not to get his back up. Yes, that’s right, he admitted, endeavouring not to sound too defensive. I was sitting on the garden bench by the end of lake with my travelling companion when we both heard what sounded like a gunshot and…

Mr Sturgis cut him off without apology. Say no more. There’s a crowd coming this way, including Herr Weiss, the concierge. He’s an absolute martinet; used to be with the Prussian Secret Police. He reminds me of Acton’s aphorism about power corrupting and absolute power absolutely corrupting…or something like that…if he suspects the balloon was shot out of the sky he’ll start an interrogation that will probably go all night and I don’t intend to have my vacation spoiled by a jumped-up bully-boy with pretensions to grandeur.

Captain Groote’s tone came with irreticent sharpness. More to the point, if he thinks someone shot that balloon out of the sky, he’ll shut down the festival. Let’s meet tonight after dinner to discuss matters further.

Where? said Sturgis. We don’t want to be overheard by any of the guests. And we can’t really be seen going into each other’s rooms since we don’t really know each other. It will appear suspicious if we are seen…

Quite right, agreed Captain Groote, slicing quick smart through every obstacle. Let’s meet in the tennis pavilion. Let’s make it ten o’clock. He turned to the doctor and regarded him with fresh eyes, taking in the full measure of him as if for future reference. By the way, you haven’t introduced yourself.

Dr John Watson, he returned in clipped tones; scanning the crowd accumulating at the edges of the tennis court. He felt disturbed by what had taken place and he wanted to run it past someone able to reason objectively.

Dozens of curious onlookers began edging forward now that the black smoke had dissipated, including passengers from the stripy balloon, some of whom were in tears, trembling. Guests from the hotel were hanging back in stunned disbelief, distressed, shaken. The Countess did not appear to be among them.

Mr Sturgis spotted Herr Weiss striding toward them like a tyrannical taskmaster and slinked off into a spinney of silver birch trees. Captain Groote stood his ground indomitably.

Dr Watson heard the Afrikaner accent rise above the shocked gasps, and heard the words ‘kerosene’ and ‘cigar’, but he didn’t wait to see what might transpire. He retraced his footsteps through the iris allée, taking the shortcut leading down to the lake, and found the Countess seated on a garden bench about ten yards on from where they had started running. Seated beside her was the lady with the tiny waist. The latter looked like a delicate flower that someone had forgotten to water.

Is everything all right? he asked with some trepidation, forcing concentration, still uneasy about the poor souls from the blue and gold balloon, and the two men he had foolishly agreed to meet in the tennis pavilion. It was surely a case of murder if someone had pierced the balloon with a bullet. But what sort of maniac would do such a thing? And why shouldn’t they discuss it in public? It was a matter of public safety. The hot air balloon festival might be postponed or even cancelled but it was a small price to pay for lives being spared.

Baroness Wintertur fainted from shock, supplied the Countess, phrasing the fact in her usual plain-speaking manner. Her brother was in the green balloon. He is being summoned by one of the guests and should be along any moment to help her back to her room.

Fanning her face with her hand, the delicate flower looked up wiltingly. I thought my brother was in the blue and gold balloon, you see. He was meant to go in that one this morning. But then, after I recovered from my shock, I remembered he swapped to the green balloon at the last minute.

The Countess noted the doctor’s singed brows and read the worried expression on his face. We heard an explosion and saw some flames. Was anyone injured?

No survivors. I think they died upon impact but we will never know. The basket was incinerated. He tried plain-speaking too but it back-fired.

Baroness Wintertur promptly fainted a second time.

Dr Watson, confused by his own gallantry, reached out awkwardly and caught her by the waist before she smacked into the gravel path and did herself a minor injury. The Countess helped him to lay the delicate flower wrapped in a swirl of floral chintz across the full length of the wooden bench where the wilted floret cut a girlish figure disproportionate to her years, absurdly slender, a flirtatious featherweight, likely to float away with the next puff of wind.

A tall, lean, dark-haired man wearing horn-rimmed spectacles and carrying a black medical bag was running swiftly toward them. They presumed it was the brother.

I’m Dr Bazalgetty, he announced breathlessly, knocking that theory on the head. Baroness Wintertur is a patient of mine, prone to fainting spells. Stand back and give her some air.

Her corset is too tight, responded the Countess tartly as the doctor leaned over the droopy patient to check her pulse. She cannot possibly draw breath into her lungs.

Yes, agreed Dr Bazalgetty, counting the beats as he held the fine-boned wrist of the petite baroness, pale as a lily. I have told her that a hundred times to no avail.

Dr Watson noted the black bag and the blunt candour. She might respond better to some ammonium carbonate.

Dr Bazalgetty pushed the horn-rimmed spectacles back onto his longish nose and flipped open the black bag. Are you a medical man? I noticed you didn’t say smelling salts.

I used to have a small private practice in London. Dr John Watson. Pleased to meet you. Are you the hotel doctor?

No, I operate a private clinic in Meiringen, down in the valley, about a mile from here. I treat disorders of the mind. I was attending to a patient this morning – an American lady staying at the hotel - when I was summoned by Herr Weiss. He told me a hot air balloon was coming down rather swiftly. He expected there might be some serious injuries. I grabbed my medical bag and ran to check but there were unfortunately no survivors. I was making my way back to my patient when I spotted Baroness Wintertur prostrate on the bench. I knew at once she must have fainted. He waved a small vial of ammonia and alcohol under the cute-as-a-button nose. She’s coming round now. She has her own vinaigrette. It is usually kept on a chain around her neck for when she feels light-headed. Hmm, she doesn’t appear to have it with her today, that’s odd.

There’s something over here, said the Countess, spotting a gold chain on the path. This is the spot where she first fainted. I was on my way to the scene of the accident when she dropped like a stone right in front of me. Oh! And here’s the vial. It bounced into the pansy bed. I’m afraid it’s broken. The vinaigrette has leaked out. She will need a new one.

Dr Bazalgetty smiled sagely. I have plenty on hand, especially at this time of year with the hot air balloon festival.

Do the balloonists tend to faint from fright?

No, no, nothing like that. They are an intrepid bunch. The Baroness has a brother who is keen on hot air ballooning. He comes every year and the Baroness always comes with him. I keep plenty of vinaigrettes on hand in advance of her arrival. It’s the corsets, as you pointed out, not the hot air balloons.

Baroness Wintertur gave a soft groan, signalling a slow revival. Frederik, she whispered weakly, opening her eyes, gazing insensibly, searching the blur of faces leaning over her, turning vaguely from one to another, like a flower in search of the sun. Frederik?

Dr Bazalgetty bent forward and spoke reassuringly. Frederik is not here yet. He’s on his way. It’s Gracien Bazalgetty. Don’t distress yourself, dear lady. And don’t try to get up too quickly. Allow the blood to circulate in its own good time.

Blinking against the bright alpine light that must have hurt her watery blue eyes, she gazed up gratefully. Oh, Dr Bazalgetty, what would I do without you?

You wouldn’t need me at all if you would heed my advice. The rebuke was mild and the patient smiled sheepishly.

You must leave me to my little vanity. It’s all I have left now. A woman of a certain age has but…

"What’s happening