“The pleasure is all mine,” said the count before turning to the dowager duchess. “Your Grace, I would be honoured if you would give me the next dance.”
She sighed, the exhalation so soft I am certain I alone heard it. With a final squeeze, she released my arm and turned to the men.
“Thank you, Count von Kratzov. However, I am a trifle fatigued. Might I prevail upon you to show me those magnificent emeralds instead?”
For a moment the tableau stilled, as if each player were frozen in time. Even the music paused, and during that short-lived quiet, I heard a soft, sharp inhalation, although I could not tell from whom it issued. Then a woman’s shrill laugh rang through the room, and the silence ended as suddenly as it had begun, movement and sound resuming.
The count’s expression briefly darkened, then his scowl disappeared as quickly as it had come.
“But of course, dear lady,” he said, bowing and offering his arm.
The dowager duchess hesitated only a heartbeat before resting her gloved hand upon his. She glanced at me over her shoulder, and I do not believe I mistook the plea in her gaze.
“Doctor, you will join us, won’t you?”
“It would be my very great pleasure, Your Grace.”
Von Kratzov escorted her across the room. Denbeigh and I followed in their wake, as cygnets paddle behind a swan. The four of us had gained the receiving room, and I saw that Stanislaw still stood guard before the door. Denbeigh plucked at my sleeve.
“Doctor, a word, if you please.”
The count ushered the dowager duchess into the small room that housed the emeralds as I turned to Denbeigh.
“Her Grace asked me to…” I began. Stanislaw closed the door and turned to face us, his broad Slavic features impassive.
Denbeigh’s grip tightened and he pulled me to the far side of the room. “I will only take a moment.”
“A moment, then.” I glanced at the drawing room’s closed door.
Leaning close, Denbeigh spoke low. “Where is Mr Holmes?”
“As I said before, he is somewhere about.”
“But why is he not here, observing my mother?” His fingers dug into my arm.
“You must ask Holmes yourself. I cannot speak for his actions.” I pulled from his grasp and stepped away.
“Of course not,” he said, the colour high on his cheeks. “Forgive me, I am simply concerned about my mother.”
“I understand,” I replied, my irritation fading. “Holmes and I both share your concern, and I am certain that, whatever he is doing, he is endeavouring to prevent any incidents from occurring that would involve Her Grace. Now, if you will excuse—”
“One more question, please, Doctor.” He waited until I nodded before continuing. “Do you think it significant that she asked to see the emeralds?”
“Not at all. They are unparalleled in Europe and justifiably famous. I would think it odd if she did not.”
Before he could respond, a shriek pierced the air, followed by heavy thuds and a sharp crack, then the sound of shattering glass.
I whirled toward the closed door. “Good God, what is that!”
My exclamation overlay Denbeigh’s cry of “Mother!” We dashed to where Stanislaw, startled from his impassivity, pulled upon the door handle without effect.
“Locked!” he grunted.
I motioned him away.
“Your Grace! Your Grace, can you hear me?” I pounded upon the heavy oak with my fist, then pressed my ear against the panels. My heart sank at the silence within. What could have happened to her?
Suffused with anger at myself, I bit back my curses. I had failed in my duty; I should have ignored Denbeigh’s request and attended her! I raised my fist, raining blows upon the panels.
“Watson!” From seemingly out of the æther, Holmes appeared at my side.
“Her Grace may be in danger!” I cried, continuing my battery upon the door.
“She and the count are within?” His quicksilver intellect grasped the situation immediately. “Do not blame yourself, Watson,” he said, drawing me away.
With a glance and a nod at Stanislaw, Holmes doffed his coat and handed it to me.
Denbeigh raised his hands in supplication. “Do something, Mr Holmes!”
Holmes’s expression hardened. “Stand back,” he ordered.
Upon a word from Holmes, he and Stanislaw pressed their shoulders to the oak. The wood creaked, but did not give. They tried again with the same result.
The room grew crowded with the concerned and curious, and I instructed several footmen to encourage the onlookers to return to the ballroom, or at least to keep clear a space for Holmes and Stanislaw.
They hurled themselves against the door again. With a loud crack, the latch at last gave. Thrusting Stanislaw to one side, Holmes darted into the dark room. I followed, ignoring Denbeigh’s breathless cries and clutching fingers.
For a moment, sufficient illumination spilled across the threshold to show the overturned table. Before I could discern further details, Denbeigh and Stanislaw crowded the doorway, blocking the brightness.
“Let no one else enter!” ordered Holmes.
Stanislaw turned to face the outer room, a more effective barricade than the violated door.
“Take care, Watson!” Holmes’s voice came from across the room. “Let me light the lamp before you venture further.”
Although wild with concern for Her Grace’s safety, I saw the sense of his request and followed his bidding. He struck a lucifer and the small flame flared in the darkness, sending dreadful shadows dancing across the walls and illuminating Holmes’s grim expression. He stepped to the fixture, and in the still room I could briefly hear the hiss of gas before the sudden burst of light caused me to shade my eyes.
Blinking as I adjusted to the light, I needed only a single glance to take in the room’s utter confusion. As I had observed earlier, the table was tipped on its side, the legs facing the open door. The glass case containing the emeralds lay overturned on the floor by the fireplace. Curtains, now torn, sagged, and light glittered off the shards of several smashed window panes.
A soft moan startled me. I turned to the window, my breath catching: There, half-hidden by a swath of damask pulled from its hanger, lay the dowager duchess.
“Good God!”
In an instant I knelt beside her, gently lifting her limp, ungloved hand. Her pulse, weak and thready, strengthened as she stirred. Minute pieces of glass glistened in her hair and upon her bodice.
“Do not attempt to move,” I said, carefully touching her temple, then lifting my hand to the light. Blood, dark and viscous, stained my fingertips.
She groaned, then appeared to slip back into unconsciousness.
“Holmes, she is in need of immediate assistance.”
Holmes bent over the far end of the table, which almost touched the opposite wall. He grasped one corner and tugged it from the wall.
“I fear she is not the only one,” he said, his voice grave. “Count? Count von Kratzov? Can you hear me?”
I reluctantly released her hand and stood. My medical vows required me to ascertain the count’s condition, although I was still concerned about the dowager duchess. I walked to Holmes’s side and gasped. The count lay sprawled in the corner, his face and shirt-front spattered with blood.