by Tim Symonds
Holmes half opened his lids and glanced across at our visitor. ‘You say you require our services - ?’ He broke off, reaching for his briar pipe.
Our strange visitor stretched beneath his cloak and withdrew a heavy chamois leather bag. He let it drop on the table.
‘This bag contains exactly three hundred pounds in sovereigns and seven hundred in notes,’ he said, ‘plus a few dozen Bulgarian gold 100 leva bearing my head - for your expenses in my country. Accept this as a mark of my esteem.’
He added, ‘You would not expect the Prince Regnant of Bulgaria to pay you any less than the King of Bohemia!’
I stared mesmerised at the bulky leather bag.
‘Your Royal Highness,’ I returned. ‘That is a very generous sum. We must assume the matter is of the highest importance.’
Our visitor seated himself on the sofa.
‘Important enough to bring a Prince out in such a gale,’ he answered.
Our visitor followed this with a backward glance at the door. He turned to Sherlock Holmes and murmured ‘Mr. Holmes, if I am to explain exactly why there is nothing of greater importance to the entire world than the commission I am about to proffer, I must presume I have your utmost assurance of confidentiality?’
Holmes reassured him with a ‘You may’; adding with a gesture in my direction, ‘Your Highness, I undertake nothing serious without my trusted comrade and biographer at my elbow.’
‘Importance to the entire world?’ I could not prevent myself asking.
The Prince’s forehead wrinkled at my incredulous response.
‘To the entire world,’ he repeated impatiently. ‘It concerns the loss of a centuries-old manuscript known as the Codex Zographensis, the most ancient and most sacred manuscript in the Old Bulgarian language. Since the news came that it has been taken from a hiding-place believed to be completely secure I have hardly had a wink of sleep.’
‘Let us hear more of this Codex Zographensis,’ Holmes broke in. ‘Why is its loss of such importance? Why would you come all the way from Sofia by way of Simpson’s Grand Cigar Divan to our quarters at this hour, and in the teeth of our famous weather?’
‘The Codex is an illuminated manuscript, a gospel-book more than a thousand years old,’ our guest related. ‘For many centuries it was believed lost or destroyed. Sixty years ago it was rediscovered at the Zograf Monastery on Mount Athos and found its way back to Bulgaria. From the moment of its return the Codex took on a mystical importance, a talisman of national destiny, like the Golden Throne of the Ashanti, or the Stone of Scone at the crowning of your British kings.’
Holmes had been listening with closed eyes to our visitor’s account, his legs stretched out in front of him. He opened his eyes.
‘Have you informed the Bulgarian police?’ he asked.
‘My dear Mr. Holmes, to inform the Bulgarian police must, in the shortest of runs, inform the world. This is what I particularly desire to avoid.’
My companion motioned towards the chamois leather bag.
‘You have told us why it is of such value to your country but as yet not the extreme urgency for its recovery.’
‘I can only hint at the reason,’ came the terse response.
‘A hint will suffice for now.’
‘It concerns my eldest son Boris.’
‘Of what age?’ Holmes probed.
‘He is six.’
‘Some more facts, please. Do we deduce there is some nationalistic or religious ceremony you wish your son to undergo which requires the presence of this manuscript?’
The Prince inclined his head.
‘I repeat, Mr. Holmes, it is absolutely vital the Codex is found and returned to the nation. Otherwise - ’ His voice fell away.
‘Your Royal Highness,’ I intervened, ‘if, as you say, you are acquainted with my chronicles you will know Sherlock Holmes - with the rare exception - is more intimately concerned with matters of murder, far removed from international politics.’
‘You need only concern yourselves with the recovery of the manuscript, a simple theft,’ came the reply. ‘You may leave the politics to me.’
He rose to his feet and stood looking down at us. In a quite agitated manner, he said, ‘Gentlemen, time is of the very essence. My country is surrounded by a plethora of warring nationalities and terrorist groups - Young Czechs, Italian Irridentisti, pan-Slavs, the andartai from Greece, the chetnitsi from Serbia. Worst of all, the Russian bear growls outside the cave, waiting to swallow me up. The fate of millions may depend on the swift recovery of this national treasure.’
My comrade asked, ‘The Tsar of Russia, you suspect he is behind this theft?’
For a moment our visitor wore a bitter look.
‘I see the Tsar behind everything,’ he responded fiercely, ‘as will you, I am sure. He wreaks his vengeance with the atrocity of the barbarian. The wretch has allocated a million francs for my assassination. Russian gold and Russian explosives are deployed against me everywhere. In his lair far away, barricaded by ice and eternal snow, guarded by four million soldiers who only ask to die for him, what has that monstrous sturgeon to fear?’
‘You think, sir, that unless this manuscript is recovered there will be war?’ I asked, even now unable to hide my incredulity.
‘When I say the fate of millions, Dr. Watson,’ the Prince replied, anger in his voice, ‘I do not mean simply the fate of a few peasants and a Balkan Prince. I mean entire civilisations and whole empires.’
He went on, ‘Thomas Cook’s on Regent Street will make all your arrangements for a swift departure. Once you get to Paris, my private carriages on the Orient Express will be at your disposal.’
Our visitor started towards the door.
‘Find your way to the Gare de Strasbourg by Friday evening, I beg of you,’ he continued. ‘Your tickets will be marked Sirkeci. That is the terminal by the Golden Horn. I request you switch to a Second Class carriage at Marchegg. There are eyes everywhere. Quit the train early, at Orşova on the Danube. Three hours after your arrival at Orşova a steamer, the Orient, of the Austrian Danube steamship company will dock. Board her. She will take you across the river to Svishtov. You will have arrived in my country. A highlight of your stay will be the International Sherlock Holmes Competition.’
The Prince Regnant reached the door. ‘Mr. Holmes, if you are to use your powers, it is essential you are taken to the scene of this abominable crime the moment you arrive. Even considering the case of the Bruce-Partington Plans, you will never have had so great a chance of serving your country.’
‘And the place where the Codex was concealed?’ I asked, glancing across at a shelf of Baedekers.
Our visitor’s eyes widened. He fell backwards in an exaggerated fashion, hands up. In a hushed tone he said, ‘Dr. Watson, I must beg your indulgence. I know that landladies are sometimes curious as to their master’s affairs. Can you guarantee that Mrs. Hudson is so rich she would refuse to divulge such information in the face of 500 grams of virgin Russian gold?’
At our silence he went on, ‘Of course you cannot! May I merely say it is a day or two’s journey from Sofia? I shall take you there myself. We shall slip away from my Palace unnoticed.’
Holmes had remained silent for some few minutes, his brows knitted and his eyes fixed upon the fire. At his quiet nod I stood up and went to our visitor, extending my hand. ‘Your Royal Highness, you may leave everything to us. The very least we can guarantee is our best effort in the recovery of such a national treasure.’
I held the door open. ‘One last question,’ I continued. ‘I have never heard of the International Sherlock Holmes Competition. How long has it been a tradition in your country?’
‘This will be the first,’ our visitor replied. ‘I have just invented it. We Balkan Princes can do that sort of thing.’
&n
bsp; Concerned, I enquired, ‘But surely the whole point of our investigation will be our anonymity?’
‘Dr. Watson, would you prefer to come to my country disguised as Sufist missionaries? Better my enemies can’t see the wood from the trees. If there is a chance sighting of Mr. Holmes, they will not know if it really is the world’s greatest deductive reasoner, the most energetic agent in Europe, or one of a hundred personators putting themselves forward for a considerable prize.’
He pointed to the outside world where dawn was about to break.
‘Now, gentlemen, like the vampires which teem in my country, I must leave you lest your sunlight strikes me and Ego mortuus sum.’
With a further sweep of the blue cloak and a ring-bedizened hand, our visitor was gone, his exit as theatrical as his entry. Behind him lingered the faint aroma of Astrakhan lamb. We moved to our posts by the window to observe his departure down Baker Street in the spring dawn light. A single cab splashed its way past him from the Oxford Street end. A street-organ grinder loosened up for the morning rush with ‘Soldiers of the Queen’ and the swing-step of ‘The British Grenadiers’.
Holmes turned away from the window with a wry expression. ‘Well, Watson, what do you make of it all? Is my little practice degenerating into an agency for recovering ancient superstitious scribbles and giving advice to governesses?’
For a moment I feared he would back away. ‘Holmes,’ I replied quickly, ‘I remind you that the affair of the blue carbuncle and The Adventure of the Copper Beeches first appeared to be a mere whim yet developed into serious investigations.’
***
Holmes is not a man to lose time in idle preparations. In his more intense moments he will permit himself no food. He once confided that his principal diet before we entered Mrs. Hudson’s establishment was bread, potted meat and bacon cooked over a gas-ring. Before breakfast-time on the morning of our departure for Paris and the Gare de Strasbourg he took his hat and started off down the street.
With no intention of falling into this habit, I rang the bell for Mrs. Hudson and urged her to bring me one of her best breakfasts. I settled down to partake when my comrade’s voice commanding our landlady to order a cab came up the stairway. He entered the chamber and glanced at my plate. ‘Watson, you must abandon our virtuous landlady’s excellent devilled kidneys and kedgeree. We have an assignation with brother Mycroft at No. 10 Downing Street. Pack a box as quickly as you can. We must depart within the half-hour if we are to continue onward to catch the boat-train to France.’
I sprang to my feet.
‘Why does Mycroft wish to see us?’ I asked, ‘and why at No. 10? Why not the Diogenes Club or his home in Pall Mall?’
‘Mycroft is a valued member of the Prime Minister’s Kitchen Cabinet and the European Secretary’s most valuable confidante. We are to take a small gift for our Balkan prince together with a confidential message conveying our Government’s high regards. I ask you, Watson, are you at all averse to this trip? Would you like to give it a miss?
‘Not for worlds, Holmes!’
‘Excellent!’ came the reply.
I started towards my dressing-room. Unsure whether our investigation would stretch into the hot Balkan summer I continued on to the attic in search of tropical wear. I uncovered a set of clothing obtained from Gieves of Old Bond Street before I embarked for India - a now-elderly pig-sticking pith helmet with spine-pad, duck clothes and two palm beach suits. I returned the pith helmet to its tin topee case, the clothing to the Pukka wardrobe trunk, retaining a tropical suit in the form of tussore. When the original brownish colour of the strong coarse Indian silk turned to yellow it became the subject of considerable amusement at the Punjab Club, obliging me to stop wearing it. I decided it might look quite subdued in the Balkans among the Kurds, Druze, Jews, and Ismailis.
My comrade called up, ‘Watson, along with your tooth-brush and a half-pound box of honeydew tobacco, perhaps you would be good enough to bring those forceps you used in Kandahar to extract bullets from the living flesh. Mycroft worries that any shot intended for the Prince may well hit his travelling companions instead.’
Chapter III
ON HER MAJESTY’S SERVICE
I PULLED Rupert of Hentzau from my shelf of unread books. Given the lawlessness of eighteenth-century Scotland, when armed smugglers operated along the coast and thieves frequented the country roads, I decided to accompany it with a Walter Scott, Guy Mannering.
A goodbye to Mrs. Hudson and we were on our way. After a rainy night a fog had descended. The comfortable brougham edged us towards our destination via W.E. Hills of New Bond Street to drop off Holmes’s fiddle for restringing. My comrade’s careless scraping provided the proprietor with a regular client. From there we whirled around Trafalgar Square and down a cluttered Whitehall to Downing Street. A servant led us along a maze of corridors and up and down narrow uncarpeted stairways to a small chamber deep in the interior. Mycroft, portly as his brother was thin, rang for tea, welcoming us with the words, ‘Gentlemen, the Prime Minister himself asked me to invite you here.’
‘And why precisely has Salisbury taken this sudden interest in our humble lives?’ Holmes asked.
Mycroft was solemn.
‘He wishes me to tell you that Bulgaria looms high on his list of concerns. The disappearance of the Codex and your invitation to recover it are at the very least serendipitous. He begs you not to take this commission lightly.’
‘Why has Bulgaria toppled the Back-Veldt Boers in your list of preoccupations?’ I pursued.
‘Europe is an armed camp, Bulgaria the powder-magazine. The Tsar of Russia yearns to wrest the throne of Bulgaria from the Catholic Prince and replace him with an Orthodox ruler. The Tsar’s armies lie gleaming and glittering at the Bulgarian border. If just two of Ferdinand’s towns on the Danube declare for Russia, the Tsar will order his forces to attack.’
He waved us to our seats and went on, ‘In response, this will trigger an immediate attack on Russia by the Austria-Hungarian Emperor. Then the French would mobilise. They have a secret reinsurance Treaty with Russia and would immediately join in on St. Petersburg’s side. In turn, the Germans would come in against them. Meanwhile the Russians could wipe out the Turkish and Bulgarian Black Sea fleets in a single engagement. We would see the Tsar’s warships steaming through the Dardanelles and the Bosphorus, threatening Her Britannic Majesty’s routes to India. The balance of power we have striven to maintain since Bonaparte would be overthrown, the threat to our Empire significant.’
Mycroft pointed to a wall-map. ‘The moment your boots touch the soil of Bulgaria you will be in topsy-turvy land. Balkan geography is complicated, the history intricate, the politics inexplicable. Certainty becomes uncertainty, the unexpected the prosaic. Nothing you take for granted in England will offer you a blueprint for your stay. Bulgaria is a land of danger, plague, treason and sudden death. You will feel you are forever on the edge of something unexpected. The Prince rules a Balkan state which has just awoken from a quincentennial sleep. The Capital Sofia is little more than a Turkish provincial town, some thousands of people crammed into ramshackle one-storeyed wooden houses, every saloon bar and lodgings infested like Agadir with the secret agents of the Great Powers. It is the odiferous monument to half a millennium of Ottoman civil maladministration, the squalor relieved solely by its fine setting on the slopes of Mount Vitosh.’
‘Mycroft, what more do you know about our client?’ I asked.
‘Only that he is not to be taken lightly, addicted as he might be to table-rapping, palmistry, and crystal-gazing,’ came the reply. ‘The owner of a face dominated by a Bourbon nose and huge ears may have the look of the Maharaja of Mysore’s legendary white elephant but his wily nature suggests the quality of the fox. The Foreign Office believes he may have something rather larger in mind for the Codex than the ceremony he mentioned.’
‘Namely?’ I pursued.
‘The struggle of the Cross against the Crescent. He has aspirations to throw off the Ottoman yoke and resume the ancient Bulgarian title of Tsar.’
Mycroft stood up. ‘But before I forget - ’ He took hold of a fine ebony-handled sword stick, withdrawing a thin triangular-section blade about three feet in length. The silver ferrule bore a lozenge-shaped hallmark indicating a French origin. He returned it to its cane sheath and passed it to Holmes.
‘We would be grateful if you would present this to Prince Ferdinand. It was a personal gift to the Prime Minister from the President of France but the Knyaz - as he is addressed in Bulgaria - may be more in need of it in Sofia than the Marquess here in London.’
He looked hard at his brother. ‘Sherlock, I ask you not to adopt your customary sneering approach to Royalty and the Aristocracy. This opera buffa principality may be in the hands of a minor Coburg but he surrounds himself in an icy hinterland of horror. Like Henry VIII he sleeps on eight mattresses rolled upon daily by his bed-makers to be sure assassins haven’t stuffed them with poisoned daggers. He survives through absolutism tempered by assassination. In some parts of the Balkans suspected enemies are denounced and dragged off, convicted within the hour of treasonable conspiracy on the flimsiest evidence, and sentenced to indefinite imprisonment in the dungeons of a distant fortress. Rulers like Ferdinand have learnt the quieter ways to rid themselves of their enemies - a carriage accident with a runaway horse, a shot fired at night in a deserted street.’
He continued, ‘It is rumoured Ferdinand dabbles in unusual ‘-ism’s, such as occultism, cabalism, and spiritualism. Persons suspiciously like Black Magicians flit around and inside the Palace at various times. People swear that each day in the Palace grounds Ferdinand buries the gloves and ties he wore that day, intoning strange sentences with a mysterious air. In reality the menace to his world comes not from malign spirits but from a pocketful of far graver ‘-isms’: militarism, imperialism, and nationalism.’
