by Tim Symonds
‘That triggered nothing in your mind, Watson? Come, think hard! When Salomé tore the head away and we could see her bare face again - ?’
I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, Holmes, I am at a complete loss.’
After my reply, despite my importunate enquiry, he would only say, ‘We need to glance a little more closely into details. It is imperative to examine the body one last time,’ adding quietly, ‘There lacks one final proof before we confront the killer and reveal the solution to the world.’
Following this dramatic pronouncement Holmes fell into an obdurate silence. I gave it over in despair and turned my attention to the outside world. Above us, a star or two twinkled dimly here and there through the rifts of the clouds spreading away from the volcanic peak of Mount Vitosh.
In the night, the city seemed to possess a peculiar acoustic property. Each sound was magnified, even the clink of our human horses’ shoes. A solitary passing carriage sounded like the parade-ground drill of a brigade of cavalry.
Some fifteen minutes later we crossed a murky, sluggish river and came to a large square. The air was pungent with the smell of stables and rotting vegetables. Despite the elegance and spacious nature of the habitations of iron and copper mine-proprietors to every side, and those built by merchants exporting flax, linseed, honey and tallow, the atmosphere was desolate. In Sofia it seemed nearly everyone except the street-sweepers collecting up piles of horse-droppings was in bed by ten.
Unwilling to approach the Mausoleum in the gloom, the porters halted in the centre at an obelisk remarkably like the milestone in London’s St. George’s Circus. This one honoured the Prince’s predecessor, Alexander. By it stood a small, silent coffee-stall, grey-hooded and with a pale lamp. We crossed the square on foot. The edifice was entirely surrounded by halberdiers. An officer in charge held a lantern to our faces and gave us permission to enter. My senses were already heightened by the sight of Salomé pressing her mouth to the severed head of John the Baptist. Inside they were further assaulted by the hot-house temperature, the massed flowers, the burning candles, the overpowering incense, all contained and compressed within Imperial porphyry walls.
Holmes gave a satisfied grunt. ‘Ah, she is still here,’ he whispered.
A single shaft of moonlight from an upper window fell upon the young woman’s cadaver. Her face was mask-like. A winding-cloth covered her up to her neck. A ruche of black gauze disguised as far as possible the strikingly vivid strangulation marks. By her side lay a pair of gloves and a fan. In the candlelight her lips shone in a crimson ellipse, shaped and coloured by the art of the undertaker with cochineal dye and beeswax. No longer utterly pallid, the cheeks were now too red.
A custodian lay asleep on the floor, wearing a shabby dark brown suit of the native tweed, the black-cloth collar shiny with grease. He awoke at our entry. Noting our attire, he rose respectfully. Holmes signed to him, ‘We have come to pay our respects to the dear departed’, adding aloud, ‘In our country, our custom is to show the utmost respect for the dead by a kiss.’
Startled, I began, ‘But, Holmes - ’
I was silenced by his urgent whisper: ‘Not now, Watson, I beg you.’ Louder, he continued to address me, ‘Doctor, you may pay your respects to the dear departed in your turn, in your own way, as I must in mine.’
The man took hold of the shroud as though to throw it back to reveal a hand. ‘On the lips,’ Holmes repeated, illustrating his words by tapping a forefinger to his own. Reaching into his pocket as he spoke my companion brought out a gold hundred-leva coin. It glistered even in the dim light.
Overwhelmed by Holmes’s superb assurance, the man took the gratuity with a slight, if uncertain nod, and moved across the marble floor to withdraw the rope between us and the catafalque. He pointed wordlessly to a small jewelled casket containing a chrismaria of holy oils before turning away to permit us the moment’s privacy.
Holmes stepped forward. He bent over the dead woman. For a moment his face hovered over hers like a bird of prey, a gap of a mere inch between his nose and hers. In the dim light he looked more Iroquois Indian than Celt. Suddenly his head dropped down. His face pressed voraciously into the swathe of bright red colouring. His thin lips swept from side to side across her mouth like a bison wiping away snow to reach the vegetation below. That the first kiss I had ever seen delivered by the most perfect reasoning and observing machine the world has ever known should be delivered to a woman’s corpse shocked me to my very essence. My legs went weak with the horror of it.
For perhaps six seconds Holmes’s lips remained locked to hers before he detached himself and straightened up. He dipped a finger in the chrism and touched a small amount of the sweetened olive oil at the point the woman’s nose met her forehead. The scent of balsam lifted into the heated air of the Mausoleum.
A further long minute passed. My comrade stepped away from the catafalque and turned to thank the custodian. The man’s eyes widened. He gave a shriek the like of which I had never before heard from a human-being. It vibrated with a frenzy of terror in the small space enclosed by the red marble walls, reverberating across the Mausoleum until it ran together into one long unearthly scream.
Holmes turned swiftly to me. The same thrill of horror which sent the custodian fleeing suffused me. My comrade’s close-set grey eyes and sharp, hawk-like nose were now conjoined with a ghastly slash of crimson which extended his mouth more than an inch to either side. He looked as if he had feasted ravenously on the dead woman’s blood, as though he was now a member of the brotherhood of vampires.
These many years later I retain a vivid recollection of that instant, of Holmes’ triumphant expression, the ring of his voice, his proclamation, ‘The matter grows in interest. Watson, I have seen and done everything that I need to. Pay your respects if you wish and we must leave.’
Still reeling from the horror of his face, I reached down and gave a swift pull at the shroud to access the woman’s hand. With the winding-cloth withdrawn, a ship’s chain holding fast to her wrists and ankles became visible. The hand I intended to bring to my lips fell away with a loud clank. The authorities had made sure this unclaimed corpse was firmly pinned down by the dead weight of cast-iron. The victim of a vampire would never rise up from the dead to pursue a frightened populace.
Chapter XIX
DÉNOUEMENT
TO my immense relief Holmes led us out of the Mausoleum. We found ourselves once more on the dusty square. The halberdiers, deeply disconcerted by the custodian’s headlong flight through their cordon, fell away in confusion. I chided my companion immediately. ‘Holmes, kissing a dead woman on the mouth is not something I would expect - ’
He interrupted me with a grim but satisfied look. ‘Pshaw, Watson! I can assure you the meeting of our lips was as instructive as a meeting of our minds. I have in my hands,’ he continued confidently, ‘all the threads which have formed such a tangle.’
‘Then I wish you would put me out of my bewilderment!’ I exclaimed. ‘Never in all my years with you - ’
‘My dear Watson,’ my comrade returned, ‘I do not wish to make a mystery but a little over-precipitance may ruin all. We must move with great speed, otherwise I would put you out of your misery. Soon I shall lay an account of the case before you in its due order, showing you the various points which guided me in my deduction. I merely remind you that women are naturally secretive, and they like to do their own secreting.’
I was not to be silenced. ‘I have no doubt even a connection between old Army boots and a Turkish bath is perfectly self-evident to a logical mind, and yet I should be obliged if you would indicate what in the name of the Almighty could you discover by giving the cadaver so - so - muscular a kiss on the mouth? I would never have expected - ’
‘My dear sir,’ Holmes broke back impatiently, ‘in your time in my wake what you would never have expected would fill far more battered ti
n-boxes than the dozen or so shilling dreadfuls you have so far managed to scribble.’ He continued in a more placatory tone, ‘I tell you we are enveloped in a riddle wrapped in a mystery as deep and complex as anything we have ever confronted. Remind me, what was your explanation for the abrasions on her face?’
‘Clearly the assailant’s beard rubbed savagely against her cheeks,’ I replied. ‘What else could it be?’
‘An ingenious and not entirely impossible supposition. However, I would call your attention very particularly to two points. First, why does the faint smell of mastic cling to those cheeks? Furthermore, if yours is the correct explanation, why was the light down hair one would expect on the woman’s upper lip completely absent, a fact I discovered by snorting away the lavender powder and thrusting aside the lip-paint with my - as you say - muscular kiss? If you provide an explanation for those puzzling facts you have solved the riddle of the missing husband.’
‘The missing husband!’ I exclaimed, astounded. ‘What connexion could there be between this poor woman and Captain Barrington? Are you suggesting she was his mistress - that he murdered her for fear of exposure and fled abroad?’
My comrade shook his head. ‘If that were true, then the case is at an end. We could set Harker of the Central Press Syndicate on him, or the Baker Street Irregulars. Or place an advertisement in the London Telegraph and offer a generous reward for information on the Captain’s whereabouts.’
He looked at me gravely. ‘No, Watson, I say we must move with the utmost speed. I believe the life of someone you have a soft spot for is in the most imminent danger.’
‘Who might that - ’ I asked, surprised.
‘Mrs. Barrington, of course,’ came the answer.
‘Mrs. Barrington?’ I repeated, gaping at my companion. ‘Why should anyone want to harm - ’
My companion brushed my words aside. ‘Not now, Watson,’ he returned. ‘Tell me, that photographic contraption given to you by the Prince, the bellows camera - are you able to work its magic?’
‘Certainly,’ I plumed. ‘Up the Grim we - ’
‘Then have a message delivered to the Palace tonight as follows: ‘Your Highness, with the unexpected return of the Codex there is nothing to keep us any longer in your country. We intend to return to England very shortly. Before departing, Dr. Watson has a small favour to ask. Please arrange for the War Minister to pose for the camera in the caparison for which we will always remember him, as the winner of the Sherlock Holmes competition. SH’.’
I exclaimed, ‘What a fine idea. What a wonderful souvenir of our time in the Balkans! I shall offer it to my Editor to accompany the adventure I plan to title The Case of The Bulgarian Codex.’
‘As you wish. And Watson, along with the camera, do not fail to bring your service revolver.’
These words from Holmes, following close on his remark that Mrs. Barrington’s life was in great danger, brought me up short. I had not up to this point taken a very serious view of the case. It seemed grotesque and bizarre rather than perilous.
While I absorbed this unexpected command, my comrade resumed, ‘I have one more important task for you. Even if you have to force him from his bed this night, ask Penderel Moon to send an urgent reply-paid telegram to the manager of the Tivoli Theatre. There is a point I wish to ascertain.’
‘Which is?’ I asked, suspending my propelling pencil.
‘Who topped the bill during the early part of April two years ago?’
***
The next morning the British Legation forwarded the theatre manager’s reply to our hotel. I hastened telegram in hand to Holmes’s room. He was seated in an alcove puffing on a large cigar, his feet thrust into red heelless Turkish slippers provided by the hotel. His back was to me as he gazed out on a cemetery. The tombs were simple flagstones level with the ground without crosses or columns or stelae. Scattered families sat among them in the cool air conversing with the Departed, some with little birds in cages.
Without looking round, Holmes waved me to an armchair. A hand rose over his shoulder. It pointed in the direction of a small side-table supporting several more cigars wrapped up in silver paper.
‘Do try one, Watson. They are a gift from the most devious Prince in Christendom. Don’t be alarmed - they don’t seem to be explosive. And help yourself to a cup of tea.’
He swung the chair to look at me. ‘Do I deduce from your energetic arrival and bewildered look that we have had a reply from London?’
‘We have, Holmes. You wanted to know who topped the bill at the Tivoli in early April two years ago, but for the life of me I can’t see - ’
‘ - why I would take an interest in Miss Vesta Tilley?’
‘Why, Holmes,’ I responded, gaping at him, ‘how ever did you - ?’
Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, a habit when in high spirits. He jumped up.
‘Later, Watson, later! Drink up your tea or abandon it. We must return to Mrs. Barrington’s. We are ready for the dénouement.’
Seated in the carriage my comrade’s eyes took on the introspective look I have observed whenever he exerts his full powers. What Holmes’ luminous intellect finds simple frequently bewilders me. Once again I had a sense it is not logic, cold and ordinary, which enables him to solve his cases. It is the clairvoyant’s eye for detail. Of the greats of the past, the giants on whose shoulders he modestly remarks he stands, he is most like Urbain Le Verrier, the mathematician who discovered the planet Neptune and determined its dimensions long before telescopes powerful enough to pick it out in the night sky were invented. Yet in this instance Holmes seemed determined to leave me completely in the same stygian dark.
Holmes was still resisting my demands for an explanation (“You have a grand gift of silence, Watson, now is a good time to exercise it.”) when we arrived at the Barrington villa. He banged at the door until the flustered housekeeper peered through a slit. Once more we were shown into the drawing-room. I waited for our hostess with a mix of trepidation and a high degree of irritation at Holmes’s reticence.
Soon Mrs. Barrington made her entrance. She wore a white cashmere costume with a band of lace some four inches wide encircling her waist. She greeted us with a bob and a gesture at her attire.
‘As you can see, I am hoping my husband will return at any moment,’ she explained.
Her appearance contradicted her optimistic words. With the passage of a single day her eyes had grown dark with sorrow. She plumped down on the fauteuil where she sat looking from one of us to the other with an uncertain smile. Her expression soon turned to one of apprehension, as though our sudden appearance and especially Holmes’s steadfast look had shaken her nerves.
Finally she offered, ‘Shall we return to the study?’ and once settled there she asked, ‘You have made progress, gentlemen? Have you any news of Captain Barrington?’
Holmes responded gravely. ‘We have come to tell you that half-confidences are worse than none, Mrs. Barrington. It is imperative you are absolutely frank with us. You failed to inform us of your visit to the Tivoli Theatre that early April, indeed you misled us by saying your chaperone had refused to allow you to attend. I understand why. The good Doctor here has made enquiry as to the playbill at the Tivoli at the time.’
A flush stole over Mrs. Barrington’s lovely face. She burst into a storm of passionate sobbing.
‘Holmes!’ I ejaculated, half-rising. ‘What in the name of - !’ I threw him a severe look. ‘You have badly hurt her feelings with your accusations!’
Deeply discomfited, I stared back and forth between the two. Several minutes went by before Mrs. Barrington regained her composure. Then Holmes said to her,
‘I beg you to lay before us everything that may help us in forming an opinion upon the matter. You must tell us the truth, for there lies your only hope of safety. I must advise you any circumloc
ution or concealment may quickly lead to your own death.’
Her breathing grew high and thin at Holmes’s ominous words. Her explanation began to flow like the bursting of a dam.
‘So you have discovered the secret of Captain Barrington,’ she addressed us, dabbing at her eyes.
‘Apparently my good friend has,’ I rejoined plaintively, ‘but as yet he has kept me in ignorance. I wonder if you might be kind enough to reveal any such secret to me?’
‘You have just been to the Coburg Mausoleum, have you not?’ came the response.
I nodded, bewildered. ‘We have, yes, but how does - ’
‘And you saw the body of the murdered woman lying there?’
‘We did.’
‘The corpse you saw there, as Mr. Holmes has deduced, is the body of my husband, Captain Barrington.’
My mouth dropped open in uncontrollable astonishment. ‘Good Lord!’ I exclaimed, and relapsed into a stunned silence.
Our hostess turned a dolorous gaze on my companion.
‘Mr. Holmes, I beg you to listen to my explanation. I throw myself on your honour and your love of justice. If our deception is to be revealed, so be it, but first let me tell you all. You must already understand it is an unusual story and of considerable complexity.’
We listened spellbound as she unfolded an extraordinary tale. At times she spoke in a voice so low that I could hardly catch the words but as I listened the mists in my own mind gradually cleared away.
‘I hope you will accept that everything my - husband - and I did was through my father’s concern for our family estates. I told you his exact words - “You must go to England, my daughter. The matter of your marriage is the greatest concern of my final days. If you are not married to an Englishman most urgently, Konstantin will steal our lands when I die.” I related how he chose Captain Barrington from the Kelly’s Handbook, the name kept to ourselves and revealed to no other. I described how I prepared my wardrobe to attend Mr. Fernie’s Billesdon Hunt, that I hired a box at Market Harborough and set about seeking out the eligible young Captain my father wished me to marry.’
