“In between the fellow’s descriptions of exotic gipsies and romantic Carpathian vistas, the photographer describes a dinner with certain important men in Bucharest. These are men who, you understand, may have been slightly miffed about the failure of some business or social affair. At any rate, food was eaten and drinks were downed. Then one of them made a joking toast to Prince Barbu—as the ‘Prince Consort.’ And the others laughed.”
Holmes winced. It was a remarkably efficient taunt, implying a cuckold King, a Queen who wears the pants, and a Prince who was her true partner. “It’s a rare insult that drives a blade into three targets at once. The photographer could not have realised the weight of that joking title. He’d never have published it.”
“Certainly a born Englishman would not. And it did take some time for his memoir to make it across Europe—I heard a rumour that the Queen only saw a copy of it when she was in London this summer. Once it gets around, the man will find cool greetings from half the kingdoms in Europe.”
“So the love affair—”
“The possible love affair,” Broder put in.
“The purported affair is now public, and all parties realise it. Possibly including Princess Ileana. If this is the case, who would be driven by it into making threats, driving the Queen from Bran, and trying to ruin her reputation? Prince Barbu’s wife, perhaps?”
“Good Lord, no. Although I wouldn’t put it past the Crown Prince.”
“Prince Carol, yes. There’s trouble brewing there.”
“Even the Roumanians are getting tired of the scandals and irresponsibility, and the King and Queen have given him about all the free rein they can. Rumour has it that, now the Queen has returned, matters will come to a head—the book-makers are leaning towards their stripping Carol of the title and giving it to his little son. And Carol, who has always hated Prince Barbu and long been alienated from his mother, will no doubt see the two of them as siding against the King.”
“Would he make threats against his sister?”
“His sister? Which one?”
“The young one. Ileana.”
“The two of them have always got along fairly well. Although, he might, if he could use her against his mother in some way.”
“Which returns us to my original question: Are you aware of any overt and credible threats against Queen Marie?”
“Nothing open. And credible? Most of what I hear are grumbles, not open threats.”
“What about Prince Barbu? Not from him, but someone wishing to use him?”
“Știrbey? He’s from the wealthiest, most powerful family in the country. In partnership with the Queen, his authority is immense. And he seems quite happy with that. But I will admit, if I wanted things to change here—if I wanted to rid the country of its current King, his overly assertive wife, and an impossible Crown Prince—I’d want someone like Prince Barbu to offer the people instead. Stable, clever, able to move easily on the international scene, and a patriot to his core. Yes, he would do nicely.
“And to go back to your original question: I have not got wind of any overt threat against Queen Marie, but if I did, I might take a closer look at the people around Prince Barbu Știrbey.”
Chapter Twenty-six
I found the most interesting thing about the section of village built along the river was the road that left it behind as it headed into the Carpathians. I walked along it for a time, seeing little but more farms, more looming hay-monsters, a few barking dogs, and labourers headed home after their long day. The air was thick with cooking smoke, and the fragrances—meat and onion and paprika, overall—were making me question my choice to skip dinner.
The little river at the base of the valley was strewn with rocks, and showed signs of torrential rains repeatedly sweeping through. The fields here looked marginally less fertile than the other side of the castle—the gardens not quite so lush, the hay-monsters a foot or two shorter. But the houses were equally neat, the people I saw every bit as amiable to a wave and a nod. The road was clear and well-marked, so I felt no great need to reach the castle before darkness fell. In any event, I had my pocket torch.
Though if I planned to walk around Transylvania alone in the dark, I thought, I should steal a head of garlic from a garden as I went by, in case of vampires. I did not spot any garlic, but I did notice, growing up against the roadway, the flower of some related member of the allium family. In a fit of whimsy, I stretched out a hand to break it off, tucking it into a button-hole in my shirt.
I came to a bit of tumbledown wall and clambered across it to a high spot, settling onto an inviting slab of rock to study Castle Bran, sentinel atop the cliffs. The face it presented on this side lacked the looming, flat-faced donjon. Instead, the castle seemed an untidy collection of roofs, walls, and chimneys, dominated by the Queen’s round tower with its droll pointed cap.
Perhaps the exaggerated cap was what made this side seem friendlier, less blunt and foreboding. It was still a fortress perched on a raw rock-face, but from this side, a gentle hill rose up to support it. The buildings of the old customs-house stretched along the road, and beyond them the Queen’s extensive flower gardens, with a new-looking greenhouse and bed after bed of roses, lilies, dahlias, and the like, a riot of colour waiting to fill all those pots and bowls.
One of the Queen’s high windows began to glint with the final rays of the sun. Nearby, a cow complained that it was milking time. A horse-cart trotted past, its driver urging it on, in a hurry to get home before the shadows took over completely. In the distance, I caught a quick glimpse of motorcar head-lamps, swinging through the crossroads and briefly illuminating a long, black shape—Father Constantin, headed to his evening meal. At least, I hoped it was. The window of a nearby farmhouse began to glow with a candle’s warm light. In its neighbour, two chattering children made for their own hearth and home.
In the final moments of dusk, I brushed myself off and hiked back down to the road. True darkness came down, but I was in no hurry and the road surface was dependable, so I left the torch in my pocket, letting my boots find their way on the dry surface. Up in the castle, the maids had lit some of the candles in the Queen’s tower, windows beginning to glow as the tower itself faded into a black silhouette against a near-black sky. As I went on, several more came alight, a fairyland effect.
I came to the crossroads, and turned onto the centre-line of the H of roads. Village houses on my left, the Queen’s park and a couple of empty houses on my right. Fewer windows shone from this side—though yes, someone had lit the candles in my room right up at the top, assuming my return. The village had fallen quiet, all its life focused around the table. My feet knew the road, but there were also gentle columns of light escaping from some of the houses along the way. I decided that I would not need my torch until I turned up the castle drive.
Then my eyes caught on something pale, coiled on the road at the edge of a beam of light from an upper-storey room. Gleaming white, looped back on itself. Very like the Queen’s fabulous pearls.
I came closer, and saw that it was indeed a loop of gleaming white rounds. I bent to pick it up…
There was a sound—one quiet footstep, alarmingly close. I whirled, to be met by a cloud of black through that stray beam, a billowing shape that wrapped itself over me and clung to my outstretched arms. I hit out, leapt back, fell—
Then a blow, and the night was gone.
Chapter Twenty-seven
It was late when Holmes finished with the Times correspondent, but if Roumania was like other countries that sweltered through the day, its hours of business would extend past the usual. Broder had given him a telephone number, before they shook hands and the next informant slipped into his chair; however, Holmes took off his jacket and tie before settling down to the telephone. He expected his pursuit to be long, convoluted, and possibly fruitless until the next morning.
To his sur
prise, a woman’s voice answered the number on the third ring.
He cast about for the Roumanian words he needed, then decided to try English. “Please, I am looking for Prince Barbu Știrbey.”
“Moment please,” she said, followed by murmuring in the background.
“This is Știrbey,” said a man.
“Good evening, Sir, I apologise for disturbing you at this hour. My name is Holmes, I was asked by Queen Marie to look into some—”
“The troubles at Castle Bran, yes. What can I do for you?”
“I should like to speak with you, if you are available.”
“Is it urgent that we speak tonight? If not, perhaps you would join me on the train to Sinaia in the morning. We would have privacy, and plenty of time.” And just as Holmes was about to point out that privacy was exactly the last thing they would be given on the train to Sinaia, the Prince added, “I have a private car.”
“I see. It is true that I intended to return to Brașov, but I need to be on the first possible train.”
“The earliest trains make many stops. The 7:20 leaves later but arrives earlier, particularly if you are continuing on to Brașov. Tell the attendant you want the royal waiting room, or my car if it is closer to the time. We can take our breakfast on board.”
“Thank you, Sir, I will. And again, my apologies to you and the lady for telephoning so late.”
* * *
—
Holmes went to bed, well satisfied, yet he did not sleep. Which was odd. Granted, it was hot and there was noise from the street, but to a disciplined mind, those counted for naught. And it had been hot and noisy when he was here last month, with a bed far less comfortable than this one, but sleep he had. To the faint ticking of his watch on the bed-side table, he found his thoughts returning to Russell, time and again. What had she learned, during her afternoon? Would she decide to go into the village tonight and keep watch on her own? Very possibly. He had left the revolver in their rooms, so she would take that with her.
Surely she would take it.
* * *
—
He rose early, bathed and shaved and drank a pot of coffee before dawn. He walked through the cool morning streets to the station, but did not go to the royal waiting room. Instead, he bought a platform ticket and, once through the barrier, asked for Prince Barbu’s car. The attendant touched his hat-brim, said he was expected, and took his bag, escorting him towards the front of the train.
The Prince was already on board, with coffee and a newspaper. He put both aside when the compartment door came open, and rose to greet his guest.
Prince Barbu Știrbey was a slim, polished aristocrat with a full moustache, intense dark eyes, and impeccable manners. Holmes knew about him—knew that the man’s knowledge of international politics was profound and his patriotism without question. Educated at the Sorbonne, fluent in half a dozen languages, with a practical understanding of modern agriculture that changed the way his vast family estates were run, Prince Barbu was a primary reason why Roumania had a chance of surviving to the end of the century.
He was also, Holmes quickly discovered, profoundly dedicated to Queen Marie, and wished to help in any way possible.
Unfortunately, he could shed almost no light on the problem.
Two things he did tell Holmes: King Ferdinand’s illness had been more serious than the press knew—perhaps even the Queen, since she’d been away during the worst of it. He was recovering, but until it was easier to move back and forth, he was staying in Sinaia’s main royal castle, rather than the family’s more comfortable dwelling on the grounds. In Prince Barbu’s opinion, the King’s recovery was not helped by the behaviour of his eldest son, Carol, which coupled personal irresponsibility with a complete lack of interest in the governance of Roumania.
He also told Holmes that, because it was almost impossible to have a private conversation with Marie at Castle Peleș, with servants underfoot at every moment, he had followed her to Bran and spent a quiet hour with her before motoring back to Sinaia.
Yes, Prince Barbu had been the urgent business—and his had been the Citroën in the castle drive—that had delayed Friday’s dinner with the Queen.
Chapter Twenty-eight
I woke blind. The blackness smelled of dust and dankness. And…onions. I lay without moving, feeling my thoughts bubble up through the sludge. Onions? There hadn’t been onions the last time I woke in a black hole after being abduct—and with that word, a bolt of cold panic shot through me. I picked an onion flower and walked through the village and oh God I’m locked in a coffin buried alive my finger-nails clawing at the—
I jerked up…and drew a shuddering breath in relief. I could sit up. I was not in a pine box no larger than my body.
The relief was short-lived. I’d been abducted once before, taken and drugged and dumped into a hole. I was trapped there for day after endless day, until Holmes managed to track me across the south of England.
At least this blackness did not stink of vomit.
Yet…
I forced myself to keep very, very still, paying attention to the air going in through my nose, feeling the same air pass out through my half-parted lips. In. Out. I willed my breathing to slow, told my heart to settle. Things hurt—scraped hand, bruised arm, an ache in my ankle and sharp jabs coming from my face and neck—but nothing seemed broken, no major loss of blood. I was absolutely blind—but that was just the dark. I had other senses. Breathe in, breathe out. Slowly. Listen; touch; smell—and think.
Sound. My breathing came back muffled rather than echoing, and the air was stuffy rather than cold: not a large space? I made a few clicking noises with my tongue, and that confirmed it: walls soft or uneven rather than hard and reflective; and not vast.
Touch. I stretched out my left arm to feel—promptly jamming the little finger against a wall. I snatched back the hand with a curse, cradling it until the pain subsided, then put out the hand more slowly. Wood: rough rather than finished, too old to smell of anything but dust—dust, and something else. The onion smell of the allium flower, yes, but also a musty odour, vaguely reminiscent of rotted vegetables. And something sharper, a chemical, pervading everything…
Chloroform? Yes, that would explain matters.
I patted around, finding the floorboards similar to the walls, though with a thicker layer of dust and a lot of chips and debris. Another wall to my right, running some ninety degrees from the first: I was sitting in a corner.
Then I gingerly raised my left arm—and hit wood less than a foot above my head.
At the size of the room, my heart began to race again and a whimper escaped my throat. Buried alive—clawing—fists beating at the lid—
Stop! All it meant was that I was in a box too small to stand upright in. I got to my knees and patted along the first wall until I found another corner, an alarmingly brief distance away. The third and fourth corners were not much more distant.
I was buried in—no: I was inside a compartment some eight feet square and four feet tall. As coffins went, this was roomy, but I could feel the sides close in on me. Keep calm, I ordered myself—the air in here is not going to last long as it is—and how long had I been here breathing already?
Think.
First: what did I have? Clothes, all of them except my boots. And while I was grateful not to be nude, it did mean that my knife was gone. And my pockets had been emptied, so no torch. Spectacles gone, too.
Had I been left food and drink? My survey of the edges had given me nothing: time for a detailed search.
First, the walls. You’re going to feel really stupid, Russell, if after all that panic you find a simple door. But a methodical survey up and down all four walls gave me no recesses, no latches, no rotted soft spots—nothing but palms so filthy I could feel the clotted dirt, and half a dozen splinters whose hot pains matched those at the back
of my head, my left cheek, the side of my neck—all over, really.
I sat, making sure my breathing was under control, then returned to my knees for a deliberate and methodical sweep of the floor. You will not panic, not throw yourself at the ceiling and scream—but I found nothing but dirt and debris.
I had been left neither food nor drink.
Breathe. In. Out. When my racing pulse had slowed, I turned to the ceiling. Starting at a corner, ignoring the feel of tears creeping down my face, I worked my way along one wall, floor to ceiling, then along the boards overhead as far as my arms would reach, then inched forward and did it again, fingertips searching for a break, a latch, a hole of any kind wider than the seams between the boards. Shuffling along, turning the corners, feeling the knees of my trousers give way, pausing to shake the circulation back into my hands. All the way around and across, every inch of it.
I found nothing. No access door, no latch. No bread and water for this prisoner. Would I be taken out—or left here to die, weaker and weaker and flailing and alone…
No! I was Mary Russell, daughter of Judith and partner of Holmes. There had to be a weakness. Every prison had a weak spot, and the persistent prisoner could find it. Here, perhaps it was the height. There was just enough room that I could stand at a squat. That would give me the full strength of my legs. If there was a padlock, holding the top down, I could force it open.
(But if the lid is nailed down, if there is a foot—two feet—of soil, like a grave on top—and maybe that dust smell is from outside the coffin—no, the BOX—and I’m in the Bran cemetery—)
Castle Shade Page 17
