The Curse of the Singing Wolf by Anna Lord

teasingly.
    “Cherchez la femme!” laughed
the Prince.
    “Yes, there is a girl in the
background, but this one is a sister of one of the men.”
    Von Gunn paused to draw on his
cigar. He was not used to storytelling. He was a businessman not a
raconteur like Anton or a natural wit like the Irishman or a born
strategist like Reichenbach who understood the complexities of a
beginning, middle and end.
    “Go on,” prompted the Baron.
“We are an impatient bunch.”
    “Accustomed to being readily
gratified,” jibed the Prince.
    “Well, one of the men said
something which dishonoured the sister. The second man, her
brother, challenged him to a duel.”
    “I thought duelling was
unlawful?” said the Prince.
    “It is,” replied Moriarty
dryly, “and so is murder.”
    Everyone laughed.
    “Go on, Gustav,” encouraged the
Singing Wolf. “A duel sounds very romantic.”
    The German licked his lips.
“Well, the two men faced off one morning on the firing range in the
grounds of the academy. Someone managed to procure two old duelling
pistols – magnificent weapons with some nice copper-nickel alloy
embellishment, also known as German silver which -”
    “We don’t need a description of
the pistols,” interrupted the Baron. “We all know what antique
duelling pistols look like, just as we did not require a
description of the dinghy or the furniture in the green
bedroom.”
    “Yes, quite,” mumbled von Gunn,
licking his lips, “well, one of the pistols failed to fire. One man
survived and the other didn’t.”
    “And the reason you suspect
murder as opposed to bad luck?” quizzed Moriarty.
    “Oh, yes, the firing pin had
been deliberately jammed. The dead man’s second accused the
survivor of tampering with the pin - the survivor denied it. The
dead body was left on the firing range and when target practice got
underway the next day it appeared as if the dead man had been
accidentally shot. Only those present at the duel knew
otherwise.”
    “I suppose several people had
access to the duelling pistols?” quizzed the doctor.
    “Yes,” replied von Gunn. “They
were in a display case in the gun room and the survivor had been
seen admiring them the week before he issued the challenge.”
    “Laissez-faire,” dismissed the
Baron. “I’ll go next if no one objects?”
    Everyone nodded.
    Reichenbach took a sip of
brandy to wet his whistle. “My story involves two men, not brothers
– a father and son. The father is a cruel sot. When he is not
debauching the housemaids he is horse-whipping the grooms and
kicking the hunting dogs. His wife has long since died of shame and
ill-treatment. The two eldest sons have long since fled the foul
nest. The third son is much younger, one of those change-of-life
babies who come late in life to women past their prime, conceived
in a drunken rage. The boy spends most of his time hiding from the
old man. He cowers on the servants’ stairs where he may receive
advance notice when to run. He watches as each servant trips on the
same step – always the ninth. He is a bright boy. He finds a ruler
and measures each riser and discovers that the ninth riser is a
fraction of an inch out. It is a miniscule difference and yet
everyone trips going up and coming down. He gets an idea. He waits
until the old man is called away to business in town and must stay
overnight. He dismantles the fourteenth plank on the main stairs
and then replaces it. The servants are baffled but they know how to
hold their tongues. The sot returns the next day and trips going up
the stairs. Later that same night as he comes down to dinner he
trips and falls to his death at the base of the staircase.”
    Everyone clapped. The Baron
knew how to tell a good story with just the right amount of detail.
The inference was clear. The boy had murdered his father by
altering the height of the riser a fraction of an inch. If any of
the servants suspected foul play they stayed silent for they had no
love for the tyrant