by Tim Symonds
The British Legate leaned closer. ‘A year ago, while the Prince attended a funeral service for a Bulgarian general - who had himself been assassinated - an infernal machine concealed in the roof exploded. More recently, a Palace chef put typhus germs into the royal soup, which made Ferdinand extremely ill. To greet the Prince’s return to Sofia this month, the Chief of the Russian Secret Police sent him an infernal machine disguised as a box of the finest cigars. The Prince thanked him profusely and used the device to assassinate one of his own enemies.’
‘And the remedy?’ asked Holmes.
‘The Prince must ensure the succession. He must remarry. Ferdinand needs a wife who will succour the Crown Prince and curry public favour through charitable endeavours. Above all, she must stand in for him at public occasions where his life might be most at risk.’
Sir Penderel smiled at a separate recollection. ‘Prince Ferdinand once asked me whether I thought it feasible that he could gain the hand of one of our dear departed Queen’s granddaughters. “Think of it,” he said. “A grand-daughter of the Queen-Empress of England! Granddaughter of the Tsar-liberator! Cousin of the German Kaiser! A future Tsarina of All the Bulgars!”.’
‘And how did you respond?’ I asked.
‘In the finest traditions of the Foreign Office. I prevaricated. The cure would be worse than the ill. Whichever Royal House agreed to give him their daughter’s hand would immediately encounter the overwhelming force of St. Petersburg’s enmity.’
In the same serious tone he continued, ‘The outside world considers Bulgaria a suitable subject for light operetta, a tiny State between the Danube and the Balkans, where the diplomatic activity of the Capitals of the Powers reaches its ruler muffled as by a deep blanket of snow. The reality is otherwise. The Russians present a most imminent and pressing danger. The Tsar aspires to place one of his Grand Dukes in the Palace of Sofia and make Bulgaria a Russian cats-paw where not a mouse would stir in the Balkans without his permission.’
He added, ‘The Power most interested in checking Russian expansion is England. Mr. Holmes, if by the aid of the powers which you are said to possess you can find the Codex you will have deserved well of your country. As Her Majesty’s Legate, I see a European Prince and future Bulgarian Tsar whose survival affords us the best chance of preventing a terrible calamity, a great war which could stretch from Moscow to the Pyrenees, from the North Sea to Palermo, a war in which tens of millions might die. I could not imagine a greater misfortune for the world than that this affair should end in your failure.’
In the distance a large ferry-boat chugged heavily towards us from the Bulgarian shore.
We turned and began to move towards the waiting coach. Sir Penderel brought us to a halt some yards short of our conveyance with the words, ‘I would appreciate it if you will join me in a few days’ time for a Royal Command performance of Salomé at the Royal Alhambra. I’m told it will be the first-ever performance in English. As it’s Oscar Wilde, no doubt it will shock - but our louche Prince rarely misses the chance to be shocking.’
The diplomat reached out and shook our hands. ‘A last word on Ferdinand. Like all opportunists he is inspired solely by regard for his personal interests. He pursues the politique de bascule. He coquettes with one Power, then another. You will find in him a great actor. He reinvents himself every time he jumps out of bed. He changes masks on the instant. He can be the polite, generous, debonair, sarcastic homme du monde, all smiles and amiability. That is his face to you. Or he can turn into a wily politician, his face to me. Or he may manifest himself as the near-tragic tyrant of a mysterious country, the easily offended ruler whose every susceptibility must be respected. That is his face to the Capitals of Europe.’
He added, ‘There is one thing which unites all these princely faces - ’
‘Which is?’ I asked.
‘A complete lack of sincerity.’
We clambered into the carriage. Sir Penderel stepped back. ‘Rooms have been reserved for you at the Hotel Panachoff,’ he called out. ‘When you set off in search of the Codex you will leave behind a Capital in fear. Each time the Prince journeys out of Sofia someone has their throat cut. Speculation is rife over which of the Prince’s enemies will be murdered this time. A final request: when we are introduced at the Palace please act as though we were meeting for the first time.’
‘You may rely on us,’ I responded at once.
Chapter VII
IN WHICH WE ARRIVE AT THE ROYAL PALACE
THE Orient raised the Bulgarian tricolour of white, green and red and blasted its horn. We navigated the Iron Gates. The paddle-wheel churned in the milk-coffee waters and crossed to the steep right bank of the Danube, delayed a little by avoiding an immense raft of logs floating lazily downstream on its way to Black Sea, chaperoned by the inhabitants of ten or twelve huts on the roof. Ashore, a waiting Royal chauffeur handed us his card, ‘Revitsky, coachman to H.R.H. Prince Ferdinand of Bulgaria’.
We embarked on the last leg of our journey. Cucumbers, tomatoes, cabbage, and peppers grew in neatly-tended vegetable plots. Storks nested on the roofs of monasteries, flapping their wings, their long, yellow beaks clacking as we drove past. A whiff of wood-smoke wafted in from the silent landscape, the most wonderful smell in all the world. In my somnolent state I dreamed of Delhi and the lean gun-horses streaking across mud hurdles at steeplechase exercise. I was transported back to the small villages of India when the twilight came and deepened into penumbra and a blue mist rose up from the fields, and, oddly, to the sweet-sour smell of the wraps of breast-feeding peasant women.
Several hours later Sofia hove into view. We came first to small manufactories of woollen cloths, linen and cotton stuffs, paper, soap, potash, copper and iron ware. Our tyres threw up a thousand smells. Nearer the centre the vehicle threaded its way through narrow streets, planks or logs laid on each side for foot-passengers.
We arrived at the Palace. The Bulgarian flag fluttered on a high mast alongside the Royal pennant. Except for the Taj Mahal it was the most beautiful building I had ever seen. The tall windows were framed by cretonne curtains which swung in the breeze. At dusk lights burned in every room to keep away the shadows, a hundred glass panes sparkling like the windows of the Palais Royal. Wide terraces fell away, with beds of scarlet geraniums lined with white oleanders and Judas-trees, dotted with naiads, dryads, nymphs and satyrs, and bronze deer from Herculanum. The side facing the terraces was surmounted by a pediment representing a boar hunt. Swallows by the hundreds swooped and soared out of nests along the cornices. Embroidered parterres spread out like tapestries, overlooking an immense lake which glinted like a sapphire, with richly caparisoned caïques circling to and fro across its black surface. All night the gardens and orangerie were illuminated by electric cars hidden in thickets.
At the sight of our vehicle, a company of the Prince’s bodyguards commanded by a Major scrambled out from shaded spots to take up positions on every step of the broad stairway. They were resplendent in silver-braided scarlet uniforms with grey astrakhan caps and eagles’ feathers held in jewelled clasps. Watching them stood a five-foot, long-legged grey sarus, almost motionless except for the slight quiver of its scarlet head and eighteen-inch-long, bayonet-like beak.
Our driver dropped us at the bottom of the Red Staircase, an exact copy of the gateway into the Kremlin’s Palace of Facets where 400 years earlier Ivan the Terrible killed a messenger who brought him bad news. To one side, awaiting transportation to the kitchens, stood a pyramid of pomegranates, pineapples and Cassaba-melons.
We walked up the fifty-eight steps, receiving salutes. Above us, house-servants moved slowly back and forth across the entrance hall spraying essence of pine. A manservant invited us to dip our fingers in a holy-water stoop filled with violets. As I did so, I looked up at Holmes. With the Poshteen Long Coat open I could see his Accurate gold watch. As far as I knew, the watch and
its Double Albert chain, together with a battered escritoire, two or three tie-pins and a snuffbox of old gold were the only heirlooms Holmes possessed. He caught my eye. A smile of amused anticipation flickered across his mouth. ‘We must take particular care with our manners, Watson,’ he murmured. ‘There’s not a spittoon in sight.’
We were guided to a large, refectory-like chamber, entering upon a scene so fantastic it could have been the residue of a tableau at Versailles. The floor jutted out over a terrace, giving the impression we floated in mid-air over a white sea. Every tone of red and blue mingled with gold. Cadets lined the walls, each dressed in a uniform of Albanian-Turkish appearance, with an embroidered scarlet tunic, and wide, multi-coloured silk cummerbund out of which stuck the handle of a yataghan, atop ample loose scarlet drawers.
The chamber was furnished with an organ and several pianos scattered around. A man sat at one of them playing a Haydn sonata which Holmes had taken to scratching out on the violin. The curtains and armchairs were covered with mauve or moss green velvet.
We caught sight of our client seated at an antique writing-table placed in the precise centre of the room. He was attired in a general’s full dress uniform complete with white fur cap. His nose, a Bourbon inheritance, surged out and curved downward in a smooth arc. The pompous mustachios blossomed, the beard teased and trimmed in the way of the Valois Princes. The Order of the Württemberg Crown, Grand Cross, was pinned to his tunic, above which could be seen the blazing red grand cordon of the Legion of Honour, once worn by his maternal ancestor Louis Philippe, the last king of France, and above that the Bulgarian Order of St. Alexander. Over him a giant chandelier hung from the stuccoed ceiling, a-drip with crystal stalactites, a gift from the House of Bourbon.
Watchful, to one side stood a man we recognised from Mycroft Holmes’s description as the War Minister, Konstantin Kalchoff. He was almost engulfed by a group of military attachés wearing short beards of impeccable cut and blackness, the medley of uniforms glittering with decorations. Kalchoff was distinguished from his acolytes in being clean-shaven. His deep black eyes, a piercing look, the skin of his cheeks drawn quite tense over his outstanding bones, and the rather lengthened form of face indicated Tartar descent. The attachés spoke among themselves in low voices, every so often descending into whispers. Surrounding them like the defensive walls of Marrakesh were the attentive eyes and ears of the Prince’s personal entourage - equerries, aides-de-camp, the officers of the Bodyguard. One or two wore chapeaux de haute forme and morning coats. Waiters carrying trays of heady fée verte wandered in and out of the circles like the rete of an astrolabe.
The Prince rose and came towards us. The faint scent of violette de parme had replaced the former smell of Astrakhan lamb. To my dismay he greeted us openly, as étrangers de distinction, as though to impress our importance on the onlookers. Without his curious disguise as the King of Bohemia, I was able to study him in more detail. The weight of fronting a predatory State was taking a corrosive toll. At around forty years of age, Ferdinand scarcely resembled the slim-waisted, golden-curled man who had accepted the throne of Bulgaria a mere decade or so ago. Only the high-pitched, drawling voice remained.
Sir Penderel stood nearby. The Prince drew us towards him. ‘And this,’ he said, ‘is the British Legate - but he needs no introduction! You have already met!’
‘I don’t think so,’ I began, remembering Sir Penderel’s urgent request.
‘Of course you have,’ the Prince boomed. ‘At the Iron Gates. Didn’t you see my men with their telescopes, lip-readers all? Thank you for your kind words on that occasion, Sir Penderel: “a great actor” indeed!’
Momentarily we were left alone with Konstantin Kalchoff. He chose to address me first, his smile cold. ‘Dr. Watson,’ the War Minister began. ‘As you are both a military and a medical man, are you on constant call to treat war fever at The Guards, or even Downing Street? Do the elderly gentlemen in your clubs speak of war with Germany and turn purple?’
‘Why,’ I exclaimed spontaneously, ‘how on - ?’
He gave a slight smile. ‘I can assure you, your country is of the utmost importance to us even if to most Englishmen Bulgaria is a faraway country inhabited by a people about whom you know nothing and care even less.’
He paused, insistent on an answer.
‘There is talk of a European war, yes,’ I responded.
‘Such nonsense,’ came the instant reply. ‘Modern artillery has made war improbable. Think of the damage a quick-firing one-pounder pom-pom can do, let alone the heavy Creusot with its ninety-six pound shell.’
‘And the Kaiser? What is his opinion?’ I interjected.
‘As far as the Kaiser is concerned, a few concessions in Morocco and he could be kept quiet for a long time. He assured me himself that Germany has no other territorial ambitions.’
The Colonel gestured towards the Prince. ‘What do you think of our Prince Regnant?’
I checked myself, and altered the turn of the sentence.
‘Have you known each other for some time?’ I countered.
‘We met in Austria, on the artillery course at the Theresian Military Academy, long before his mother purchased the Bulgarian throne for him. I have been in his service and at his side ever since.’
‘We understand the Prince is quite superstitious?’ I offered.
Kalchoff broke into laughter. ‘Look around you! Are there signs of the Kabbalah everywhere? Will he shoot every owl on sight? Does he believe a black cat passing on his left side is an omen so terrible he cannot speak of it without a shudder?’ He added, ‘Just as he sighs with pleasure if he encounters a chimney-sweep. Beneath that finery he wears a dozen, maybe a hundred amulets and lucky charms.’
Kalchoff dropped his voice. ‘They appear to work. I know of two members of his household sworn to kill him if required. Daily at the Ministry for War we decode telegrams of the most compromising kind. This week we received information that a Russian explosives expert is somewhere among us, in Sofia itself, perhaps even in the Palace grounds, with a new kind of dynamite bomb invented in Paris.’
‘Why does the Prince stay?’ I asked incredulously. ‘Why doesn’t he pack up his treasures and return to Coburg to serve his ancestral land? Why not be a man of fashion amid the gaieties of Vienna and London and Paris?’
Kalchoff smiled. ‘It’s true he could drop anchor in a thousand water-holes if he chose.’
‘Then?’ I pursued.
‘Shall I tell you his favourite saying?’ Kalchoff responded. ‘It is, ‘Better to reign in Hell than to serve in Heaven’.’
The Prince was beckoning us over to a side-table. Turkish influence showed in tulip-shaped crystal glasses of tea and cut crystal cups filled with sherbet. Our client clapped Kalchoff on the shoulder and slipped an arm through his. Looking into the Minister’s eyes, he exclaimed in a most amiable manner, ‘Gentlemen, here you have my Minister of War, my dearest and most constant friend. He is an ally who preserves his balance in every emergency, a man of affairs who chose exile in Bulgaria over the delights of Vienna, the city where even the gods and goddesses of Olympus come in various disguises in search of Hebe. Konstantin stands guard over me in unremitting vigil like the Roman Centurion.’
The Prince turned to us. ‘If you have recovered from your long journey, we shall leave in the morning. Our destination lies some days away. We shall travel incognito. There is a danger in travelling without several officers of the cuirassiers and a troop of cavalry but we must be as circumspect as possible. Fortunately, Dr. Watson, I believe we have your service revolver to protect us. You will be the sole barrier between me and the several enemies who seek my destruction. Without your protection, my life is not worth three days’ purchase. As my Minister may have told you, there have already been five assassination attempts in my short reign, several of them by the Okhrana, the Russian Secret Service.
Pyotr Rachkovsky is their chief. He takes to dynamite as saner men take to the opera.’
He stopped to stare around the room. ‘Rachkovsky is becoming as familiar to me on the streets of my Capital as my own Chief of Police. I see him everywhere. In every corner. In every dark street.’
He ended our discussion with an ominous look and the words, ‘One day I shall remove him from my path with the dynamite bought by his own roubles. His time will shortly come, gentlemen, as will the reign of terror of the Tsars themselves. I advise you to rid yourself of any Russian securities.’
Chapter VIII
IN WHICH WE JOURNEY TO THE CAVE CHURCHES
EARLY the next day we left the Hotel Panachoff and returned to the Palace. The Prince came down the Red Staircase to meet us. He carried a large pair of chamois-leather gauntlets. Goggles dangled from his neck. A white fur cap surmounted by a white plume a foot high sat imposingly on his head. A favourite flower of mine, a fresh Malmaison carnation, sprouted from his lapel. An immense handkerchief of very fine silk, coloured like parrots’ tails, cascaded from a top pocket. His large, well-manicured hands were now even more luminous with costly rings. The absurdity of the plume combined with piquant knee-breeches and smart yellow boots made me warm towards him. My companion regarded him with a sardonic eye. “Slip out of the Palace unnoticed’,’ he commented, nodding at the ostrich feather.
Our salutations completed, Ferdinand led us to the stables, large buildings capable of holding a hundred horses. The great doors swung open. We entered upon another wonderland. It was like a harem of pure-blooded automobiles. Six of the latest and most elegant vehicles stood before us, the only motor-cars in the whole of Sofia. Each of the beautiful machines was assigned its own chauffeur. In some detail we were guided around the short and high five-litre Daimler, followed by the three-horsepower, curved-dash Oldsmobile which had fetched us from the Danube, and a Royal Mercedes powered by a Zeppelin airplane motor with an electrical gear shift. The Mercedes had been designed by the German Kaiser himself. Its rich mahogany doors were inlaid with floral designs of ivory and gold. The door-handle on the driver’s side contained an ivory profile of the Prince Regnant. The handle on the other side depicted his deceased wife. Once a week, as though exercising three-year-old fillies, the chauffeurs drove the vehicles up and down the Stamboul Road, to and from the Prince’s estate at Vranya, or a small distance further to his summer residence at Tchamkoria. Surrounded by nearly-impenetrable mountains, the road was one of only two or three routes in the whole of the country with a surface capable of supporting a motor vehicle.
