Another Scandal in Bohemia (A Novel of Suspense featuring Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes)

by Douglas, Carole Nelson

  As soon as he was seated, Godfrey handed me the travel guide we had acquired.

  “You have studied the Golem legends and have visited Prague before, Nell. Tell me if this book contains anything of interest I should know.”

  I donned my pince-nez and paged through, lingering at the tissue-covered plates featuring local landmarks. The volume, I discovered with approval, had been published in London, and was dedicated to a “Professor Moriarty, Corresponding Member of the Royal Scientific Society of Bohemia, who has so largely contributed to making Bohemia known to England.”

  Frankly, the professor’s quest is still largely unfulfilled, for Prague remains one of the more obscure cities of Europe, and nowhere more so than in England. Indeed, although the term “Bohemian” has been appropriated from this land to describe individuals of an impoverished, irresponsible, and artistic bent (a commonplace, even clichéd, trinity of attributes), it has taken on a French association that puts Bohemia in shadow even when it names a modern phenomenon. From my observation, there are few things at which the French excel, but in Bohemian attributes they are unparalleled, thus outflanking the Bohemians, who are obscure to begin with, at being Bohemian.

  I studied the usual small etchings: the chapel in St. Vitus Cathedral, the East Gate to Prague Castle; the Powder Tower at the entrance to the Josef Quarter; Strahov Monastery, whose magnificence is a model of the Roman Church’s thirst for ostentatious display.

  “The index does not mention the Golem, Godfrey,” I finally pronounced, “but I do find an intriguing entry about Rabbi Lowi Bezalel, who would seem to be the Rabbi Loew of legend.”

  He bent over me to study the page, but the type was so small and close that he begged me to read the selection aloud. There is nothing I like better than giving an edifying reading, even if it is merely informational rather than inspirational. I complied, reporting that the Jewish colony in Prague was said to date from before Christian times, from before the Crucifixion even, thus supposedly protecting Prague’s Jews from Christian anger at presumed participation in the Crucifixion.

  “This cannot be completely true.” I interrupted my reading to eye Godfrey sternly over the gold rims of my pince-nez. “The book also reports a great persecution of Jews here in I389. Although Rabbi Lowi Bezalel enjoyed the favor of Rudolph the Second, ruler of Hungary and Bohemia, he was treasured for his cabalism because Rudolph sponsored many an alchemist, including John Dee. So the rabbi would hardly raise up a Golem to defend the Jewish colony if there were no danger.”

  “Impeccably argued, Nell,” Godfrey said with a smile. “You have put your finger on a grave inconsistency. But then, this is reported history, which thrives on inconsistency. In my pagings through this book I am struck by the inconsistencies of Prague itself. It harbors three divergent races and religions: Catholic Bohemians, Protestant Germans, and Jews. At one time, Catholicism was forced upon the population; at another, Protestantism. Such a political religious stew could indeed evoke a creature as fabulous as the Golem and each faction could easily believe in the other’s demons, if not their God.”

  “You’re saying that someone other than the Jews might have raised the Golem, if indeed there were such a creature and it was capable of being raised?”

  “I’m saying that another faction might use the Golem legend to upset the populace for its own political ends.’’ He considered his next opinion distastefully. “A barrister is not fond of the supernatural, but it is possible that some other faction could even have found the defunct Golem and reanimated it.”

  “How? Without the power of the ancient Cabbala? That occult agency I credit far more than our current form of spiritualism. At least it stems from the Bible, where wonders were indeed performed, and not from any latter-day drawing-room hocus-pocus.”

  Godfrey frowned. “All these eastern European lands are caught in a crossfire of religion, race, and a brutal taste for conquering their neighbors. Coupled, of course with a fierce thirst for their own freedom, even as they decimate their enemies. Here, East met West in ways Kipling never dreamed of, and long before Mother England touched toe to India. Huns and Turks swept westward and left their mark on these lands, even after Catholicism and Protestantism conquered them.”

  “You mean to say that the old religions still survive here?”

  His shrug was the supreme gesture of the rational, modern man, but his mind remained on the mystical.

  “Shrines to Christian saints decorate roads throughout Poland, Transylvania, Moravia, and Bohemia. Yet the people still placate pagan gods, demons, and superstitions. Though centuries of religious and racial contention have leeched them of their life, liberty, and peace, they still see vampires on the doorjamb and werewolves among the trees. The Russian Orthodox Church clings to its eastern mysticism and shamans, holy men, rule the neglected peasants of Siberia. Yes, I think the region’s hapless history hints that these strange, contentious people are quite capable of stirring up each other’s demons.”

  “Some faction other than Jewish, other than Bohemian even, would use the Golem and Prague for its own purposes? How appalling!”

  “Speculation, Nell. Mere moonshine.” Godfrey smiled and shook his head as if to dislodge a sinister veil of thought.

  “Even English barristers can fall prey to the seductions of these ancient lands. Ordinary political machinations are danger enough, without imagining supernatural plots as well.”

  “I cannot imagine the Germans subscribing to such nonsense,” I added, “and it is they who have the greatest stake in Bohemia.”

  “You are right, as usual. Certainly the German ascendency has held sway in the nation for some centuries. Consider the King’s string of foreign, Germanic names—Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein. Sigismond, after all, was a fifteenth century king of Hungary, not Bohemia, according to this book—proof that the Bohemian bloodline runs as thin as watered milk in his veins.

  “Irene did well,” he added, “to avoid an alliance with such a watered-down king. But do you notice anything odd about the book itself?”

  “Only”—I riffled through—“that some of the pages are dog-eared. One would expect that in a reference book.”

  “Yes, but what of the one page that is double dog-eared?”

  “Which?”

  He took the small book from me and quickly turned the pages to the one in question.

  “Yes, the corner has been bent down,” I said, “then bent again in a reverse direction. Most destructive, but people are so careless.”

  “Or their carelessness could only seem so, as perhaps the act of leaving a travel guide in the hotel dining room at Cologne was not careless or accidental.”

  “The man in the tinted spectacles! I told you then—”

  “I only guess, Nell, for the Rothschild agents in Bohemia must find some discreet way of contacting us. But what this particular page tells us I am at a loss to see.”

  I studied the small type. “It reveals only the bibulous nature of the Bohemians. This section is a discourse on beer-making and drinking, apparently the sole area where Bohemians excel! Hmmm. Springs beneath the basement taverns, and breweries on the very premises. It discusses a Prague tavern, which was old in the eighteenth century and is still in the same family as then, U Fleků. U means ‘at the,’ and is followed by the tavern-master’s name.

  “Apparently a benighted couple named Flek purchased the place in I499. The text claims that the place spawned political plots, revolutions, and more than one ill-considered marriage. Godfrey, this U Fleků sounds a most disreputable establishment—a low, dark cellar whose long tables will seat nine hundred. Can there be that many debauched souls in Prague who would wish to sit in such a place and drink beer?”

  “Decidedly! And if U Fleků still exists and remains vital enough to appear on the double dog-eared page, I believe that we should go there and find out.”

  “We? Godfrey, this is a common tavern.”

  “We are here on uncommon business. You m
ustn’t fear, Nell; I am armed to protect you.” Godfrey picked up and flourished his cane.

  I was unimpressed. “You don’t understand, Godfrey. I am not afraid of going to U Fleků; I am embarrassed by it.”

  “Oh.” He stood stock still for a moment, looking disappointed. “I did not come equipped to banish mere embarrassment, Nell. You will simply have to suffer in silence.”

  I rose to find my cape, bonnet, and gloves. “That is nothing new.”

  Later, I carried the travel guide on our outing to the tavern. Godfrey insisted that a scholarly look would add to my respectability. I suspect that he wished to have his hands free to employ his unusual cane, if needed. Indeed, I suspect that he secretly hoped for such an eventuality. Boys with a new toy are predictable at any age.

  Prague’s cobblestoned streets thronged with gay crowds. Every other doorway we passed—sturdy double wooden doors reminiscent of church portals—exploded outward, spitting out revelers and sucking in replacements. An odor of raw beer and stale food coughed into the street for a moment before the heavy doors swung shut, entrapping their victims.

  Every other sign shouted U SOMETHING, announcing a tavern.

  Our route took us over one of the fabled bridges. Beneath us the Vltava’s black water burned here and there as it reflected torchlight. Carriages passed on the bridge, moving almost as slowly as the pedestrians.

  How I appreciated Godfrey’s strong, defending presence! Though the sword-stick was a dubious and unproved weapon to my mind, merely having a male escort made a respectable woman seem buttressed by the best that society had to offer her. I clung to the arm Godfrey had extended to me when we left the hotel, clasped the inconvenient book under my outer elbow, and minced over the uneven cobblestones as we left the broad way of the bridge for a narrow, tilting side street

  Under an archaic clock in which the notorious letters U Fleků formed the dial, doors massive enough to have come from the Wittenberg Cathedral to which Martin Luther had nailed his earth-shaking theses shook to my right then creaked open. A blast of overheated, intoxicated air assaulted my face like a drunkard’s breath.

  “Here,” said Godfrey, stopping to look aloft at the quaintly medieval wooden sign swaying, not in wind, but in sympathetic inebriation, it seemed. U Fleků, read the wretched sign.

  We stepped into the dark, mysterious warmth, then tripped down several broad stone steps into greater darkness and unholy noise.

  This descent into hell indeed held a medieval fascination. A great barrel-vaulted, smoke-stained ceiling spread above us like some reverse Sistine Chapel in Hades. Dimly seen figures cavorted in the vast chamber, dancing and lifting beer steins and singing and juggling empty bottles and generally behaving like profligate demons.

  I hardly noticed when Godfrey steered me to a seat on a bench before a long, much-scarred wooden table. At least the room bore the name of St. Wenceslas. I hardly felt seated, so madly did the crowded, noisy room whirl around me with its forced merriment.

  Gradually, I noticed light from rosy lamps scattered through the chaos. Waiters skated among the tables, trays lofted high. Steins thumped to the ancient wood, seasoning it further with a dribble of liquid hops and barley.

  Godfrey leaned near to shout in my ear. “Put the book on the table, Nell!”

  It sounded like a sentence from a French language book: Put the pen of my aunt on the settee. I did as told, grateful that no aunt of mine (had I possessed one) lived to see this moment.

  A waiter swooped low to accost us. I shrank away, but Godfrey shouted something and he vanished. Thank goodness. My relief proved premature. Two minutes later we were again assaulted by waiter and tray, and a stein came to rest before Godfrey—and then myself!

  “You must appear to be an ordinary customer,” Godfrey advised at the top of his lungs.

  No one would hear; I barely did. I moved the small book to avoid any overflow from the massive stein and observed with interest as Godfrey cocked the lid and sipped from the thick pottery rim.

  I was rewarded by watching him choke on the contents, and pounded him helpfully on the back with rather more vigor than was strictly called for.

  “Black lager!” he sputtered when he could again speak— or, rather, shout. “Thick, heavy, and black as India ink.”

  “You may have my stein as well,” I offered in a discreet screech.

  “You say you feel unwell?” he shouted back, looking concerned.

  I shook my head. Communication was hopeless in this bedlam. A clandestine meeting with an unknown spy seemed even less likely, but I was in no mood to attempt to tell Godfrey so. One of us, at least, should retain the power of speech in case we actually encountered an agent of Baron de Rothschild.

  In our mutual silence, I gazed around the vast, dim environment. Come to think of it, this subterranean dungeon resembled the Baron’s basement smoking room. Here, at least, I observed some decently bonneted women among the clientele, and what appeared to be entire families of aunts and uncles and grandparents. Evidently such debauchery was a family affair in Bohemia, although I doubted that we would spy a von Ormstein among the devoted beer drinkers gathered here.

  A woman wearing the unattractive Bohemian national dress swayed our way. I do not comment on her sobriety, but rather her many-petticoated and layered short skirts, which stopped well above the ankle. This swaying bell of fabric tolled ponderously toward us. I thrust my untouched stein toward her, hoping that she would take the hint and claim it. Instead, she smiled mindlessly, swept her skirts back, and sat beside me on the bench. I was reminded of Little Miss Muffet and a rather overdressed spider.

  My seat-mate’s chubby hand prodded the slim book before me. “Most provocative reading,” she said in perfect English.

  I studied her ruddy cheeks, her braided brown hair pulled back tight from her temples, her husky arms in the coyly puffed peasant blouse. She smiled and slid my stein in front of her, quaffing an audacious swallow.

  Godfrey watched her with respect. The black beer of U Fleků did not cause this Bohemian maiden the slightest difficulty.

  She smiled, wiped her mouth with the back of one plump hand and tapped the book again. “I have lost one just like it lately.”

  “You!” I sputtered. “You were not on the train from Cologne.”

  “No.” She had sobered suddenly, nodding. “But my brother was.” Her thumbs and forefingers made approximate “O’s” and lifted to her bland blue eyes. “Man with tinted glasses.”

  I nodded numbly while Godfrey leaned across me quite rudely to demand at the top of his lungs, “Where is your brother?”

  “Outside,” she mouthed. “Follow me.”

  I have never been so delighted to leave an establishment in my life, and the girl’s swollen skirts were better than breadcrumbs to follow in this Stygian darkness.

  I leapt up like a deer in her wake. Only the custodial cling of Godfrey’s hand on my arm informed me that we two had not been separated.

  Oh, the cool, silent dark of night! I stood in the empty street and inhaled the nocturnal air, so often said to be a source of ill-health and pollution. Those who claimed such could never have spent a choking half-hour within the bowels of a Bohemian beer cellar. All I had seen was beer, and no garden, although such a bucolic place no doubt lurked somewhere behind those forbidding double doors.

  The woman beside me inhaled until her ample frontage threatened to pouf up like a pigeon’s jabot of feathers. “Ah. On such a night one could almost see the Golem walking.”

  “You have seen such a phenomenon?” Godfrey asked sharply.

  “No, but I have heard of those who have. Come. My brother awaits.”

  “Is he really?” I asked as I trotted in her sturdy footsteps.

  “My brother? Do not be foolish.”

  “Easier said than done,” I muttered.

  We ducked down a narrow, dark lane, then into one even slenderer and dimmer. We crossed a passage between two tall, cramped houses. Godfrey hit his
hatted head on a low-hanging sign and cursed in what I hoped was a gentlemanly remonstrance.

  Our guide giggled and waltzed on, her skirts flirting before us like a gingham-check flag of sanity.

  At last we found ourselves in a tiny, deserted courtyard. Our guide retreated before we could bid her adieu. A figure detached itself from the dark wrapping of an inset doorway. The fellow from our hotel, still wearing the tinted glasses, though it was night!

  Godfrey stepped manfully in front of me to confront this person, inadvertently treading on my toe. I swallowed a ladylike exclamation.

  Here our voices were hushed, like the night. Distant revelry tinkled beyond this solemn courtyard.

  “You have the book?” the man asked.

  Godfrey nodded at me—I could barely discern the gesture in the dark—and I handed it to our... secret friend. He glanced at it, running his fingers over a few pages as if they were Braille and he was blind.

  “This is the book. Then you are who you claim to be. See Werner at the Bank of Bohemia tomorrow. He will introduce you into the proper circles. As for improper circles”—here the husky, slightly accented English voice developed a sardonic tone—“I am to lead you to the areas of the Old Town where the Golem has been seen.”

  “Oh,” I couldn’t help wailing. Er, saying.

  The man turned on me with the swiftness of a serpent. “You believe in supernatural beings, Miss?”

  “Only... angels.”

  “The Golem is no angel, but a creature of solid clay and cruel justice and spilt blood.”

  “You have seen... it?”

  “No. But some in the Josef Quarter who are not known for lies or superstition claim to have seen him. Follow me, I will show you where, and then I will show you the way back to your hotel on the river.”

  I glanced at Godfrey, seeing only a top-hatted silhouette bearing a cane. He took my arm, and we once again trod slippery cobblestones through the circuitous town, seeking a site where a legend had walked only lately.

  Although the distance was not great, the district was ancient and its byways unwound in a corkscrew of high narrow streets. We were lost nine times over that night, and only the sound of our own footsteps kept us company.