Castle Shade

by Laurie R. King

  I tore myself away from supportive stonework to make another circuit of the room. “I’m guessing we’ll need to set up watch again tonight. And you’d think I had plenty of sleep last night, what with one thing and another, but I rather think I ought to close my eyes, just for a little time. You might want to do so, too, Holmes—you don’t look very well rested. Not that you will, heaven forbid you should take my advice. Never mind, if I don’t go now, you’ll have to summon the footmen to carry me. But there was something I wanted to tell you. That I discovered. About mice? Damn, it’s gone.”

  And so was I.

  * * *

  —

  Holmes woke me by the gentle urging of a poke in the ribs.

  “Ow,” I protested.

  “Unless you are crippled, Russell, you may want to rise.”

  I turned over, cautiously. Although I was definitely aware of various pains, they were not as urgent as they had been. Holmes was looking less drawn, too—I would not ask what he had discovered while I had slept, lest he be forced to admit to that he, too, had napped.

  “What time is it?”

  “Just gone half-four. We are summoned to tea—substantial, I am told, in the place of a proper meal—at five, which will permit the Princess Ileana to be past the worst of the road before dark.”

  My finger-tips were exploring the pair of welts on my throat. “If we don’t want to stir up gossip, I’m going to need heavy makeup, or a high-collared shirt.”

  “Before you slept, you were trying to remember something about mice.”

  Yes, there had been some thought, scurrying around the corner of my brain. What was it?

  “Rats!”

  Holmes raised his eyebrows.

  “Not slang—memory. I think I told you that Ileana heard ghosts in the walls? Granted, even a Queen’s castle has rats, but the girl insisted that once it was a scraping sound, another time a dropped cup. And each time, it was in a room up against the shield wall. That very thick shield wall.”

  His eyes went out of focus as he pictured the castle floor plan. He nodded. “A military post might well have one or more hidden passages, in case defences are breached.”

  “Ileana also thinks there should be a back door somewhere, although she has yet to find it.”

  “It might have been blocked off at some point, to keep the villagers from stripping away the fittings. If anyone knows, it will be Florescu.”

  “Perhaps it’s marked on the architect’s plans?”

  “If the architect had found a secret passage, everyone in the castle would know of it.”

  “True. Well, at some point you and I ought to knock on the walls, see if we can find any hollow places. And speaking of hollow, if, as I anticipate, you plan to spend the night watching for vampires and/or witches in the village, do you suppose I might beg for a tray instead of presenting myself in the Queen’s quarters? I don’t think I could bear a thousand sympathetic questions from those two.”

  “I let it be known that you took a walk and got lost in the woods. Everyone seems more concerned with how no one came to notice your absence than with the apparently minor injuries you sustained.”

  “So not only am I a mess, it’s my own fault.”

  “You did find your way out on your own.”

  “Better than nothing, I suppose. However, I’m not sure I have the energy to step in between Marie and her daughter. When I left them yesterday, the term ‘battle royale’ came to mind.”

  “I believe that negotiations are completed and a truce agreement signed, stipulating that Ileana will be driven back to Castle Peleș as soon as our meal is over, and that she will stay there for at least three days.”

  “What did the Queen have to give in return?”

  “Ileana then comes back to Bran, and is permitted to stay until the end of the month.”

  “Well, if they managed to suspend hostilities, the least I can do is allow them to feel sorry for me. And I suppose we’d best get to work, if we only have seventy-two hours. Although I would very much like to ask the kitchen maids not to walk around at night without company.”

  “That is done. I had a word with Florescu—not that I told him what you had encountered, merely said that we were concerned to keep other girls from being harassed by voices from the graveyard, and that until we could uncover the culprit, we wished to hire a cart to take them home each night.”

  “Thank you, Holmes, for putting my mind at rest. Oh heavens, I must dress!”

  But when I went to stand before the looking glass, I saw a problem. My eyes were less inflamed, the sun-burnt effect had faded, and makeup would hide the bruise—but any Roumanian seeing those two vivid marks on my neck was going to be alarmed. Wearing a bandage would be worse. I did have high-necked shirts, but nothing sufficiently formal.

  So I dug out the costume that had been left for me, and as I’d thought, in addition to the skirt, over-apron, blouse, and sash-belt, it included one of the snug headpieces that the Queen had worn at dinner. More wimple than head-scarf, and pale rather than the colourful squares worn by the local women, it covered everything but the face itself. She had probably first worn such a garment during her war-time nursing days, but now I suspected it was a bow to vanity, hiding every potential wrinkle and sag.

  At the age of twenty-five, I was a long way from worrying about facial sags, which made it an absurd garment for me, but it might merely look as if I were attempting to flatter Her Majesty by imitation.

  I worked the ear-pieces of my spectacles between flesh and fabric, then stretched my jaw a few times, to make sure I would be able to speak, and perhaps take nourishment. I felt a bit like a child’s doll in a souvenir shop, but I could move.

  When I went into the next room, Holmes—dressed in his normal suit—was waiting. He ran his eye over me, taking in the snug hair-covering, the flamboyant colours of the blouse and sash, the wide hips of the skirt and apron. “Come along, Coppélia,” he said.

  I toddled after Holmes to join the royal ladies.

  * * *

  —

  Gentle affection was in full view between Queen and Princess, with no indication of the day’s furious bargaining and compromise. Both wore clothing similar to mine, though without the head-gear (which, I found as the meal progressed, attracted soup dribbles and bread crumbs as efficiently as an infant’s bib). And yes, both wanted to know about my misadventures of the night before.

  There was no hiding that I’d had some kind of a mishap—storming bruised and filthy up the stairs had taken care of that. But my furious, English-language outburst had stopped before I’d given away the attack, and nothing in my appearance went counter to Holmes’ story, that I’d spent the night tripping around a pitch-black forest before crawling under the bushes to sleep.

  Fortunately, I remembered the Queen’s fondness for fairy tales, and diverted the conversation into a lighthearted retelling of the Babes in the Wood (leaving out the tale’s dead parents and homicidal uncle), after which Holmes joined in with an anecdote about Cole Porter in Venice, and the song-writer’s version of the story that involved the rescue of the “babes”—in his case not infants, but well-endowed young women—by a rich old man in a big sedan. From there we travelled into the Venetian lagoon and my attempt at rowing a gondola, followed by a description of the newly-invented sport of water-skiing and Ileana’s love of sailing, by which time we were safely past any abduction and wounding of a guest.

  Before either of them could remember unaddressed questions, I popped in with a bright change of topic.

  “I had a look around the castle yesterday, before meeting the Princess. What a marvellous place. However did you come to own it?” The Queen had touched on the story before, but I thought she might like to tell it more fully, and indeed she did: How she’d glimpsed the towers from horseback one day, long ago, and wished she knew
more about it. How the city fathers of Brașov, their hearts bursting with pride at being reunited with Roumania and with love for their new Queen (I took care not to meet Ileana’s eyes) came to her and begged her to accept their humble gift—not as tribute to the royal family, but as a gift to her, the Queen, alone.

  How the first time she’d arrived, ink scarcely dry on the deed, she’d expected to find it overgrown with bramble, locked into a time long past, like some Sleeping Beauty castle. And indeed, parts of it were derelict and there were rooms into which the good men of Brașov would not let her walk (due to the floors in some, the ceilings in others), but nonetheless, she had found it surprisingly tidy and well maintained, for a structure that had so long stood empty.

  “And when I discovered that the city had been paying a stipend, to ensure that the roof stayed whole and no local boys got in and accidentally burned it to the ground, I asked to speak with the family in charge. That is when I met Mr Florescu. I hired him on the spot, to teach me about the castle and help me bring it back to life. He does not always like what my architect, Mr Liman, proposes to do,” she confided, “but the two men have learned that working together makes me happy, and so they do try.”

  She laughed, that rich sound of pleasure, and Ileana joined in.

  “I gather that a number of Mr Florescu’s family are working here, too,” I said. “Gabriela is his niece, I believe you said?”

  “Yes, his sister’s daughter, the poor man has no children of his own. He was married, but his wife—” The Queen’s pale eyes darted sideways to her daughter, and she adjusted what she had been about to say. “His wife was ill for a considerable time before she died, and spent many years in a sort of hospital in Brașov. In her absence, Florescu began to take an avuncular interest in a number of the village youngsters—helping them in school, or to set up businesses. Several of them work here, in the kitchen and stables. I am told one of his nephews is a magician when it comes to maintaining a motorcar engine. There’s also a most promising new boy in the gardens this summer, who is one of his protégées.”

  “Very useful indeed.”

  “And Gabi,” Ileana put in.

  “I do like to feel that I am returning their castle to life for them as well. Isn’t that one of the responsibilities of royalty, after all? To care for the great houses and not only make them productive, but fill them with beauty. The people are proud when their betters are lifted up in the eyes of the rest of the world.”

  I had to bite my tongue against the words of protest. A woman bred and born to be Queen, with Victoria on one side and Alexander II on the other, whose elder daughters both sat on Europe’s thrones—it was too much to expect her to understand, much less hold, any faintly republican sentiments. Ileana might, with her peasant friendships—but it was not my task to turn the girl’s young mind to the benefits of a democratic system.

  I solemnly told Her Majesty that I hoped I might return to see the end product of her endeavours, some years down the line. “But tell me about your own hand in things,” I urged. “I saw the garden, which I believe is your own work? And the decoration of the rooms is a compelling mix of folklore and sophistication. Such as the ikons and statues, which I see in most of the rooms. I hope a question about this is not out of place—I have a particular interest in religion—but you are not of the Orthodox faith yourself, are you?”

  “No, I remain an Anglican. The King is Roman Catholic, while the country is, as you say, Orthodox. This has created problems, but nothing that cannot be solved. For example, during the coronation, my husband could not bow to the priest of another faith, so he simply placed the crown on his own head, then did the same with me. And yet, the people’s faith has great beauty and truth. I hope, some day before I die, that I might be allowed to grow closer to its great churches and rituals.”

  “We had an interesting conversation with Father Constantin in his garden the other day.”

  Her face lit up. “Such a charming man. He has been of such enormous help in my own garden, a person who truly understands the needs of the local soil and what kind of flower will do well here. Although he tries to convince me to grow something other than flowers—and if I did, who would the local farmers sell their product to?”

  “Is he a local man, too?” I asked, knowing the answer.

  “I don’t believe so,” the Queen began.

  Ileana spoke up. “Gabi told me that Father Constantin came just after the War, when the old priest died of the influenza. I think his wife was born here.”

  The wife, according to the good Father, had been born in Brașov, but I did not correct her.

  “You have some good men, here in Bran,” I commented. “Mr Florescu, Father Constantin, and Dr Mikó.”

  “If only the entire country was as fortunate as this small corner of it. I must get to know the doctor, I hear he is most devoted to the well-being of his people. One sees him bustling about at all times, day or night.”

  “He seems to be quite a good doctor. His training goes beyond what one would expect of a village medic.”

  “Really? That is good to know. Certainly when we had to call him in to attend to a kitchen girl’s cut hand in the spring, he seemed more than competent. I shall not hesitate to call him in when one of the people here needs attention.”

  Although perhaps not for anyone who really mattered…

  The smile I gave her may have been a bit thin, and Holmes rather pointedly changed the subject. “Is your architect coming any time soon? I should be interested in asking him about the castle.”

  “Next week, I believe.”

  Neither of us looked at Ileana, who would be back under our feet by then. We finished our meal, and our business, and faded into the castle’s upper reaches.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  The Queen’s Rolls-Royce went down the drive twenty minutes later, with Ileana and her white dog in the backseat. I changed out of the Roumanian needlework and into a dark, high-necked blouse. Within the hour, we were in the village, watching several of the girls scurry down the drive and climb onto the back of a waiting horse-cart, lanterns swinging at the front and back. Vera Dumitru had returned to work, I saw. She did not appear unduly fearful—indeed, she seemed determined to show how unintimidated she was by the night, lighting a nonchalant cigarette before she climbed up onto the cart, laughing perhaps a touch loudly at something one of the other girls said.

  I was happy to see her spirited response to events, but also concerned. What if Holmes and I failed to uncover the voice from the graveyard? Would she forever be looking over her shoulder?

  The driver snapped his whip over the horse’s back to get the cart moving, and the girls laughed and called out protests at the sharp motion. To my surprise, its progress was not marked by the usual sound of iron-clad wheels, and I realised it was one of the hybrid adaptations I had seen, with the axle and tyres from an old motorcar. We could hear their voices, fading as the cart retreated down the road that circled the castle and headed south.

  Silence settled over the village. Twelve minutes later, we heard the faint jingle of the harness, followed soon by the sound of hooves and the smooth purr of the rubber tyres. The cart turned up the road to Brașov, then reappeared a few minutes later, with only Vera and the driver. As the horse trotted briskly by, Vera had got to her feet, and was climbing over the driver’s seat to join him. They seemed to know each other—not that everyone didn’t know everyone else in Bran, but these two seemed close, she calling some laughing insult, he swerving as a threat to toss her over the edge. She gained the seat beside him and punched him on the arm, and then they were around the corner and gone.

  This time, the cart did not reappear. The driver’s home must be down that road—which would explain both Vera being his last passenger, and her easy familiarity with the man.

  Quiet returned. And with it, a tickle of unease.

 
; “Holmes, shouldn’t Gabriela have been with them?”

  A brief pause, then: “I last saw her when she came to the door, at 4:15.”

  “She seems to be on duty in the morning, not at night.” That statement was less reassuring than I had intended. I’d seen her as late as…five o’clock? Nearly six, one day. And in August, six o’clock was broad daylight, hardly a vulnerable time for a girl walking home through a busy village. Still.

  “I’d like to check with Vera Dumitru, before their lights go out. She’ll know if Gabriela left.”

  “I will come with you.”

  I rested a hand on his sleeve. “Holmes, you cannot both watch over me and over your half of the village. I was careless last night. It will not happen again.”

  I could feel him wrestling with himself, but in the end, he knew I was right.

  However, he compromised by seizing my hand and—just as I thought he was going to startle me with some statement that would embarrass him later—pressed a cold, heavy object into it. “Take the gun.”

  So I took the gun, and jogged off to pound on the Dumitru door before the lanterns were extinguished.

  Or, as it turned out, to stand in the road outside of the wooden gates and listen to the dogs clamour until someone came out to see what they were barking at.

  I went on tip-toes to peer over the wood, letting the lantern-light hit my face. “Hullo, I need to have a brief word with Vera.”

  The response was a torrent of Roumanian, so I just repeated her name, loudly and firmly, until the girl herself appeared at the door. She shouted at the dogs, who subsided into grumbles, and came to look over the gates at me.

  “Meesus Holmes! What is wrong?”

  “Nothing, Vera, I only wanted to check—did Gabi go home before the rest of you?”