by Tim Symonds
The obituary ended, ‘Those were Anderson’s final words on Earth. He departed life happy. A most admired fellow Consulting Detective had got his man.’
Chapter XIII
THE GREAT SHERLOCK HOLMES COMPETITION
IT was time to go to the Palace for the first International Sherlock Holmes competition. A carriage took us along city streets. Arriving at the Palace we were led through bustling corridors. The swishing of silk and buzz of voices grew louder as we approached our destination. A footman pulled open the large doors. What a sight met our eyes! The room was filled to every corner with the coloured whirl of uniforms. Folding Pocket Kodak cameras lay on almost every table. We saw military officers and officers of the household in full uniform, ladies parading in the latest fashions expertly copied from the great Parisian Houses along the Rue de la Paix, resplendent with blazing cabochon opals and otter cloaks and monkey fur boleros. Reds, greens, royal blues, violets. Not a tint was left on the colourist’s palette. Gorgeously-clad attendants swirled around tables, waiting on Bulgaria’s aristocracy. As the sun dominates the astronomical objects bound by gravitation in orbit around it, Ferdinand stood out, resplendent and absurd in a Bulgarian general’s uniform and golden spurs. An outer ring of planets bustled with attachés, equerries and chancellors of orders and decorations. Elegant ladies in satins and taffetas, trimmed with tulle and lace, circled among marshals, grand almoners, chamberlains, and commandants of the Palace. Rustling skirts over high, wrinkled morocco boots swept the waxed parquet. By red-curtained windows stood more women guests, in colourful clusters of furs and ostrich feathers - each wearing a yellow beryl of the kind sourced only from the Ural Mountains, in homage to Holmes’s great success in The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet.
We were led to Sir Penderel’s table. He stood up to greet us. Jocularly I enquired, ‘In our brief absence how many bloated corpses of the Prince’s enemies have been discovered floating down the River Iskar with their throats slashed?’ to which the Legate replied ‘Unusually, not one!’
A warm-up act much in vogue was reaching its climax on the small stage. Iannes the Occultist stood beside a young woman seated under a sheet. The woman conversed with the audience until the very second the magician whisked away the sheet. She had vanished without a trace.
My comrade-in-arms left us to join the four Bulgarian finalists. The Prince Regnant was fully up to date with our cases. The winning Holmes would receive an exact copy of the plaster busts of Bonaparte in The Six Napoleons, placed in a prime position on the podium. Several of the Bulgarian contestants wore deer-stalkers and puffed dramatically on Meerschaums. The real Holmes had opted for his ear-flapped travelling cap, a loaded hunting crop (his favourite weapon) and the briar-root pipe, the one he preferred before breakfast, composed of all the plugs and dottles left from his smokes of the day before, carefully dried and collected.
The Sherlock Holmes from Burgas sported a single eyeglass. The contestant from the ancient Capital Turnovo wore a facsimile of Holmes’s award from the Nayeb-Saltaneh of Persia: the green ribbon of the Order of the Lion and the Sun. The entry representing the Capital was of the same height as Holmes at just over six feet. In one respect his attire exactly matched that of our client on his arrival at Baker Street that morning - a cyan cloak thrown over the shoulders, secured at the neck with a brooch. A fine pair of silken black mustachios emphasised the glittering black of his eyes.
The five-piece Gypsy band struck up the Bulgarian national anthem followed by a rousing version of the first six bars of God Save The Queen in honour of the land of Holmes’s birth. The Prince made a short, elegant speech, referring to his deceased wife and how the money raised from the evening’s donations would go to the charitable school she had founded for the Blind.
The band tuned up for a polka in two-four step. In time to the beat, the five Sherlock Holmeses trotted up the short flight of stairs to the platform. They arranged themselves in order, each holding a placard with a number from 1 to 5 in Roman numerals. The monocled No. III stood on one side of the real Holmes, the lavishly mustachioed No. V on the other, puffing hard at a remarkable skull-and-eagle meerschaum pipe. Each was obliged to address the audience in English, the language of the genuine Sherlock Holmes.
No. I was a small man representing Plovdiv. He wore a voluminous trench coat and carried a very large 10-power, silver and chrome magnifying-glass. He leapt from the platform and scurried around the nearest tables peering closely at the diners, grunting a succession of By Joves! and Humphs! and Tut-tuts! and Halloas!, his left eye grotesquely magnified into something both comical and sinister. He received hearty applause from the audience, but only a sprinkling of votes.
Next came the turn of the Sherlock Holmes from Sozopol boasting the green ribbon of the Order of the Lion and the Sun. In the fashion of the American actor William Gillette playing Holmes for the stage, he wore a long grey cape. From behind a curtain he brought out a penny-farthing velocipede with moustache handlebars and rode it unsteadily among the tables. He too received warm applause, and a small sympathy vote.
No. III was a Ribston-pippin of a man, no more than five feet in height. He took the monocle from his eye and waved it like a professor, proclaiming in a witty drawl, ‘My name is Sherlock Holmes. As you can deduce, these others are counterfeits and should be arrested by our indefatigable Sofia police’.
Sir Penderel and I jumped to our feet applauding. Despite this show of enthusiasm ours were the only two votes he received.
No. IV, the real Holmes stepped forward. He swished the hunting crop in a deadly manner exactly as I had seen him knock a pistol from John Clay’s hand in The Red-Headed League and drive away the adder in The Adventure of the Speckled Band. This was followed by a gripping account of his deductive methods from The Hound of the Baskervilles, how he had sniffed like a bloodhound at a curious remark in the butler’s statement, that for the first part of his employer’s night-time stroll, the footmarks were those of a man proceeding at a leisurely pace, but from the moment Sir Charles Baskerville left a gate, the observant butler Barrymore said his master seemed to be ‘walking upon his toes’. Only Holmes had interpreted the phrase ‘walking upon his toes’ correctly - “the man was running, running desperately, running for his life, running until he burst his heart and fell dead upon his face”.
It was a tour de force. Despite this excellent account, and despite the ubiquity of Mr. Sidney Paget’s illustrations in the Strand portraying my comrade’s considerable but not outlandish height and prominent, square-set chin, the real Sherlock Holmes was the only Holmes to receive no votes at all.
No. V from Sofia was met with a thunderous round of applause. Rather than a deer-stalker he wore a Girardi at a rakish angle. In excellent English, he at once took his cue from the real Holmes, picking up on another famed example of Holmes’s abductive reasoning, in The Adventure of Silver Blaze. He related how he and I had travelled to Dartmoor, to King’s Pyland, at the express invitation of a baffled Inspector Gregory of Scotland Yard. A valuable racehorse had been stolen on the eve of a famous race. Although a dog was kept in the stables, someone had been in and had fetched out a horse without the dog barking enough to arouse two stable-lads in the loft.
Word-perfect he quoted:
‘Inspector Gregory: “Is there any other point to which you would wish to draw my attention?”
Holmes: “To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time.”
Inspector Gregory: “The dog did nothing in the night-time.”
By now almost the entire room was quoting my chronicle along with Holmes No. V. As one they called out, “That was the curious incident.”
A clear winner, No. V stepped forward and gave a deep bow. For the first time in his pre-eminent career the real Holmes had been topped on his own territory, and by an impersonator. The Prince called out to the victor, ‘Please reveal yourself and accept your prize!’
‘My heavens,’ I whispered to Sir Penderel. ‘Unless I am very much mistaken, that is the most famous pearl now existing in the world, the Tahitian pearl once owned by Rodrigo Borgia. It is reputed to bring death to its owner.’
The Sherlock Holmes Dinner commenced. The Gypsy band went into full swing with ‘The Roast Beef of Old England’. Within minutes waiters circulated, clothed and gloved in white. Little Dourga, the Hindoo dancer, had replaced Iannes the Occultist on the stage.
We were into the Shkembe Chorba - tripe soup seasoned with garlic, vinegar, and hot red pepper - when a messenger came to our table and whispered to Sir Penderel. In turn, the British Legate leaned across to us. He said in a low voice, ‘Mr. Holmes, your assistance may be required. A Captain Barrington, an Englishman resident here, has gone missing. He is married to a very beautiful Bulgarian. He left their villa on horseback yesterday on a mysterious mission, saying he would be back by sun-up today but he has failed to return. In case something untoward has happened, would you and Dr. Watson pay Mrs. Barrington a call? I consider them particular friends.’
Holmes nodded his assent. He asked, ‘Would you be good enough to describe Captain Barrington?’
‘He has lived in quiet here in Bulgaria for about two years. In stature rather below his regiment’s average, slim, with a waist that one might almost call pinched. In one respect he is similar to the Prince, his wonderful mustachios. They are as luxuriant as Ferdinand’s own. He’s as skilled as a Parthian in the saddle. I find it difficult to believe he would have fallen from his horse.’
Chapter XIV
THE STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE OF CAPTAIN BARRINGTON
THE next morning a phæton with extravagantly large wheels came from the British Legation to fetch us. Captain Barrington had not returned. We were dropped off at a fine villa near the Episcopal Palace. A maid took our cards into the interior. She reappeared and led us to a charming sitting room furnished in the English style.
Mrs. Barrington rose at our entrance. A light smell of English lavender came to us as we approached. She was slight, with small feet and hands. As linguistically gifted as the Prince Regnant, she spoke excellent and melodious English. She looked keenly at us, her aquamarine eyes - an unusual colour for a Bulgar - large and transparently clear, beneath thick, dark lashes. She wore a plain, tailor-made skirt with a white muslin blouse, the high neck supported by whalebone. Her hair was up in the latest fashion, coiled over the top of her head, puffed out into a great pompadour.
We were invited to occupy a sofa while our hostess sat across from us on a fauteuil.
The same maid who greeted us on our arrival returned with a tray of crystal glasses. Each glass of water held a long-handled spoon. Our hostess said, ‘You must try a speciality of the region. Mastic. It is derived from the resinous part of a plant found mostly on the Ægean island of Chios. We say it brings sweetness to the conversation.’
On instruction we dipped the spoons into the white paste, washing it down with the water. I pointed at a cabinet photograph she held on her lap. ‘Is that to help our investigation, Madam?’
She nodded. ‘It is the photograph taken on the day of our wedding.’
She lifted it by the mahogany frame and held it forward to Holmes, adding, ‘Please keep it with you for your search.’
My companion studied the photograph and passed it to me. It had been coloured in by an artistic hand. The smiling bride was magnificently attired in a Russian Boyar dress of gold-embroidered, mauve-coloured satin with a long overmantle of gold brocade and hanging sleeves of mauve velvet. On the plaited hair perched a large golden sun-shaped kokoshnik studded with pearls. She gazed out of the photograph with her head tilted in coquettish Dolly Varden fashion. In the background loomed the romantic and mediaeval image of Bodiam Castle in Sussex. The groom’s dark mustachios à la Prince Regnant were as Sir Penderel had described, particularly impressive.
I returned the photograph to my companion. As was his custom, he was looking Mrs. Barrington over in the minute and yet abstracted fashion which was peculiar to him. Not for the first time I noted that when he chooses, Holmes has a disarming way with women through which he very readily establishes terms of confidence with them.
The time came to obtain a detailed account of her husband’s disappearance. Mrs. Barrington rose. She led us through imposing double doors into a library or man’s study, distant from prying eyes or ears. She gestured graciously to quintessentially English, leather-upholstered chesterfield chairs. Within arm’s reach lay a tin of cigarettes. Holmes leaned forward and took one. She turned her luminous eyes upon me.
‘And you, sir, a cigarette? I can recommend them, for my husband has them specially prepared by Ionides of Alexandria. We keep them for connoisseurs like Mr. Holmes though Captain Barrington could hardly have expected such an eminent - ’
Her eyes moistened. Her voice died away in a beautiful cadence. She held out her hands as in supplication, compelling my respect and admiration. In spite of all her distraction there was a nobility in her bearing, a gallantry in the defiant chin and upraised head.
Prompted by our keen expressions, our hostess began to relate the circumstances of her husband’s disappearance, how he frequently rose early to exercise his favourite horse in the forests on the lower slopes of Mount Vitosh, always returning by dusk.
Mrs. Barrington turned to address me. ‘I believe you are most knowledgeable on horses, Dr. Watson? The horse in the photograph is my husband’s favourite. His name is Brigadier. We brought him back from England. He’s the one my husband was on when he left for the forest.’
I had taken note of Brigadier. He was a Haflinger, a well-muscled new breed, rich, golden chestnut in colour, with a refined head and light poll and a notable Arabian influence.
‘A fine choice of horse for mountainous terrain,’ I remarked.
My eyes drifted across to a large painting in oil on a gessoed poplar panel, signed by the greatest portrait painter of our time, the American John Singer Sargent.
Mrs. Barrington followed my gaze. ‘There too, you see me with my husband.’ She gestured. ‘And Brigadier.’
With her assent Holmes and I got back on our feet and went to the painting. Mrs. Barrington was depicted standing on a swathe of grass. She wore an ivory-white Persian dress and a white and green over-jacket, with a turban entwined with pearls. Her hair tumbled down her back from under it. Her smile, which we were not often to see, was striking. As though just put down, at her feet was a sarod, a musical instrument I had last heard strummed in a Kashmiri village. At her side, in lean silhouette, stood the missing husband, not tall but patrician in stance, once again in the full dress uniform of a Captain in the Connaught Rangers. The luxuriant black mustachios sprang out, so real I felt I could reach into the painting and twirl them.
My comrade produced a strong lens and leant into the painting to examine the Captain’s face with great intensity. What had attracted his ever-active attention, I wondered?
‘And this was painted when?’ he asked.
‘Just under a year ago,’ came the reply. ‘A wedding anniversary gift from the Knyaz.’
Holmes stood back and pointed from the painting to our hostess’s hair. ‘And the fine pair of diamond swallows in your hair, a family heirloom I presume?’
‘N
ot an heirloom,’ Mrs. Barrington responded.
‘What then, may I enquire?’ Holmes pursued.
‘Also a gift from the Knyaz. I have heard they were given to him by the Viennese actress Kathi Schratt.’
We returned to the sofa. Holmes gave Mrs. Barrington an encouraging look. ‘I wonder if you might recount the events leading up to your husband’s departure on this last occasion?’
She began, ‘We were engaged upon our toast and coffee in the morning. A stable-boy brought a note to the house. It was marked For Captain Barrington. Strictly Personal. The boy had no idea who delivered it. My husband read it and burst into laughter. He tucked the note in his pocket and said, “I have been offered a dare I cannot resist. I shall tell you all about it but not now as I must hurry”. I asked, “When will you be back?” He replied, “By dawn.” I exclaimed, “By dawn! Can’t you at least tell me what the note says?” but again he laughed and repeated, “Don’t worry, you’ll hear all about it tomorrow, I promise”. He told me he would return with a bouquet of cyclamen picked fresh in the forests of Mount Vitosh. He gave a droll click of his heels, raised a hand in a salute, and was gone.’
She pointed at the window. ‘A little later I saw him on Brigadier. He was turning the note this way and that. Then he rode off.’ After a pause she said quietly, ‘And he has not been seen since.’
My comrade asked, ‘Has it been Captain Barrington’s habit to stay away at night?’
‘Never before, no,’ she replied.
Overcome with curiosity, I asked, ‘Is it a general custom for beautiful Bulgarian women to marry officers of the British Army?’
Mrs. Barrington blushed. ‘No, I shouldn’t say it was customary by any means!’
