Castle Shade

by Laurie R. King

  We had also bought the Queen some time.

  The windows were finally showing signs of light. Unfortunately, I could not see an opportunity for any sleep for some time yet, at the end of what promised to be a very long day. “We need to know what Father Constantin was doing, walking through the village so late.”

  “We should also interview Gabriela’s colleagues in the kitchen, who may know more about her movements than they have yet mentioned.”

  “I’ll return the Queen her pearls, and talk to the kitchen,” I said, “You go chat with the priest.”

  Tasks divided, we went our separate ways.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Sherlock Holmes let go of the brass knocker and waited for the sound of footsteps. And waited. The priest’s house did not appear to believe in an early breakfast hour.

  He was about to bang again, more assertively, when a sound came from within. The door opened, and the man’s wife looked out. Her initial disapproval—parishioners should have the manners to wait until coffee was drunk—gave way to surprise.

  “Good morning, I need to speak with Father Constantin.”

  “Yes yes, come,” she said, stepping back to invite him in.

  Politely ignoring her dressing gown and bed-slippers, he shook his head. “I will wait here.”

  She smiled and closed the door, and Holmes heard the trail of her voice, calling, “Costel!” followed by a rapid string of Roumanian that included the words for Englishman and young wife. He smiled, and took a seat on the bench among the roses.

  Father Constantin had put on his cassock, but pyjama sleeves peeped from the wrists. “My friend, what can I do for you so early in the day? And you do not look fresh from your bed.”

  “No, I am not. Before I tell you, I need to ask you about last night. Why were you out so late?”

  “I am often out late. A priest is called at all hours.”

  “But last night, where were you?”

  The priest ran a hand through his hair, to generate thought. “An old woman is dying. She was restless. The doctor was there earlier, but he can only treat her pain. So, the family sent for me. I gave her holy unction, then sat until she slept. I prayed with the family for a time, and came away.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “In the village. Up the Fagaraș road three, four houses.”

  “Did you see anything as you were coming through the town?”

  “What kind of anything?”

  “Another person? A cart or motorcar, perhaps?”

  “Not a soul. I walked and prayed, and saw no person until I come in my door.”

  “How long had you been there?”

  “Hmm, hmm. Was after dinner when the boy came. I stayed two, three hours. So maybe ten of the clock? But please, my friend, tell me why you are out from your bed so early?”

  “A young woman who works in the castle disappeared on her way home last night. Gabriela Stoica.”

  “Gabi? No!”

  “She left the castle just before dark, and around midnight, her father noticed that she had not returned. He had, as I understand it, been drinking.”

  “Too often, yes. I must go, her sister will want me.”

  “The police are organising a search. I will walk with you for a bit, Father, if I may?”

  The priest nodded brusquely and hurried inside. Holmes could hear his voice, in long explanation to the wife. When he came out a few minutes later, his hair and beard were combed, the pyjama-stripes gone, and he carried two tin mugs and a pair of napkin-wrapped rolls. He handed one of each to Holmes.

  “My wife thinks you need feeding.”

  The mug was coffee. The roll held a thick slice of some cold egg pancake dish with bits of ham and onions, savoury and sustaining. When the contents of both cups had gone down enough to permit motion without spillage, the men set off down the road.

  “Father Constantin, you must know everyone in the village.”

  “A priest does, yes.”

  “Who in Bran hates the Queen?”

  The priest stopped abruptly, then held his dripping cup away from his garments. “The Queen? Why? What happened to Her Majesty?”

  “Nothing directly. But strange events follow people who work for her. Miss Stoica, for example. She works at the castle, and is a friend of Princess Ileana.”

  Progress down the road resumed while the priest tried to see any pattern in the village oddities, then decided simply to answer the question. “No one hates the Queen. In the cities, you will find young—heat heads, is that the word?”

  “Hot-heads.”

  “Hot-heads, who see the King as bad and want to bring in greater democracy. ‘Bad,’ not evil, you understand—someone who costs the country lots of money and does nothing useful.”

  “My country has republicans as well. We fought a war over the monarchy, and tried it for a while, but having made their point, the monarchy was soon restored.”

  “Oliver Cromwell, yes.”

  “And others. But I don’t think here the problem is political. There is something more personal at work.”

  Father Constantin took a bite of the roll and chewed absently. “There are minor…resentimente?”

  “Resentments.”

  “Minor resentments, yes. The Queen hires one man and not another—or, not the Queen herself, but her men. Her kitchen buys milk from one farmer, the one left out feels it an insult. But big enough to capture a maid off the road? No.”

  “There seems to be some rivalry between her butler, Florescu, and the village doctor. I am not saying that either man has anything to do with the girl’s disappearance, but perhaps it could be a part of a larger issue I do not know? Some animosity that might surface elsewhere?”

  “Oh, the rivalries in a village are deep, you are right there, my friend. And to be honest, because I am a man from outside, some things I do not always understand. Yes, Florescu and Dr Mikó are like two boy-dogs with each other, polite but hair a little standing up, you know? And yes, I think there was something from long ago that is at the bottom, but could be from when they were boys. Maybe one took the girl of the other, or one lost a football game and thinks the other cheated. Boyhood feelings stay, yes? Like a splinter in the skin?”

  “They fester.”

  “Yes, that.”

  “But I thought the doctor’s family was from Brașov, not from Bran?”

  “Yes—and as a big-town boy, always a little bit more important, you know? That I think adds to the problem. He comes here to visit family, plays lord of manor, Florescu become irritate, yes? And Florescu family hold keys of actual Castle Bran—as watchmen, yes? So their boy can come and go there when Mikó cannot. It—how you say? Rubs nose in the matter?”

  “Florescu’s family never owned the castle, did they? They were only the caretakers?”

  “No no, they never own anything. But they hold the key. Big responsibility in small village, power to keep anyone out, or let anyone in.”

  “And any time young Mikó started to act the big man,” Holmes mused, “all Florescu had to do was invite all the other boys to come play in his castle. Yes, I can see that would build a grudge. Who actually owned Castle Bran, before it was handed over to the Queen? The records I have seen are spotty.”

  “City fathers of Brașov, I think? Built by them, long, long ago, then given to princes—different princes, of Transylvania. When the border moved to Pajura, a hundred years ago, was no more customs income, so no more reason to want Bran. Was damaged, repaired. Austrian army used it, fifty years ago. And until the War, was used by forestry people. Woods-men, inspectors. After the War, it needed a lot of repair again, and Brașov was happy to give it to Queen Marie. Here, you finished your coffee?”

  Holmes handed the priest his empty cup. Constantin placed it alongside his atop a low stone w
all, tucked the napkins inside, and went on unencumbered.

  “When I came here six years ago, the village was poor. No telegraph, children barefoot in winter, Dr Mikó only comes from Brașov one day a week. Mr Florescu held keys to a castle about to fall down, where bats lived and squirrels nested. Then five years ago, Queen Marie came, and was like putting water on a dying flower. Telegraph line, roads smooth, children fat and happy. Florescu suddenly the most powerful man in town, you see? She depends on him to hire maids, gardeners, carpenters.”

  “And doctors.”

  “I do not know, you understand, if Florescu or Marie was choosing doctors to come to Bran. Castle Peleș is not far, no problem to call her own doctor from there, if needed. But I think, if Florescu had wanted, he could have said, Ma’am, we have an excellent doctor here in Bran, if you need him. And to be honest, I think it started that way. I remember she had Mikó come to castle for some small thing, early on—maybe three, four years ago? But maybe she did not like him, because that was all.”

  “Does Mikó treat them anyway? Even villagers who work for her?”

  “Oh yes. Just not up at the castle—except in March, when a girl cut her hand, very bad. But yes, he cares for all. And maybe a year ago, he came into money—so he begins to come three, four days a week. Buys new car, new equipment in his surgery. He feels that Bran is home, and is happy now to serve.”

  “He no longer needs to keep up his practice in Brașov?”

  “Oh, he is still there, works at hospital mostly. But money means he can choose. It is to Bran’s good luck that he chooses to come here. He is a good doctor. Gentle hands, good eyes. And con…conscience?”

  “Conscientious.”

  “That, yes. Now injured men, women with birth problems, can get message to his home and he will come or send ambulance. He only charges what they can afford. Makes a huge difference in the town.”

  And also makes the doctor hugely important, Holmes reflected. In contrast to his old rival Florescu, who, after all, was still just a glorified caretaker.

  Ahead of them on the road was a gathering of men that could only be the search party, heading in their assigned directions. Father Constantin sped up, leaving his companion behind.

  Sherlock Holmes stood in the road for a time, not seeing the figures milling about, trampling underfoot any possible sign of a struggle.

  Evidence. Evidentia. Something that was obvious, to the eye or to the mind. It was also a piece in the machinery of the Law, a fact that went to support a proposition—but that was later on. In the beginning, a proposition would be too formless for proof.

  To give a theory form, Sherlock Holmes had been known to beat a corpse and harpoon a pig. He’d come alarmingly close to a murder-suicide, in pursuit of evidence. He’d talked to unlikely individuals, travelled to distant places, and stretched out on a lot of cold, wet ground in order to gather data first to build, then confirm, his theories.

  In the early stages, facts and ideas spun past like leaves on a fast-flowing stream, piling up on a protrusion, sailing on when whatever the load had caught against proved inadequate to hold it.

  It helped, to be familiar with the patch of stream in question. As it helped, here in Bran, to have learned that this village house he was standing outside had a rheumatic old woman who rarely slept (and who would have heard an abduction outside her door); and that the one down there held a man who had spent time in prison (but for burglary, not an act of violence); and that the dog there ignored passers-by on the main road (but raised holy hell if anyone went down the lane).

  He had the sensation of leaves catching on some hidden impediment. Something that he had been told, or seen, or overheard, was causing the facts to collect.

  But what? He patted at his jacket pockets, and made a little sound of exasperation. What he needed was his pipe and a handful of shag, and some time to stare at nothing.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  I returned the Queen her necklace, told her that we had spoken with Inspector Dragomir, and ended up repeating virtually the entire conversation.

  When I escaped at last, I came face to face with the butler.

  “Mr Florescu! I didn’t expect—that is, I thought you’d be helping with the search.”

  “They have many people. I am needed here.”

  “I understand. Please let me know if there is anything I can do.”

  He gave me a distracted little bow, and continued on his way.

  The kitchen was the hub of all activity. Not that everyone in the room had their hands occupied, but the room was crowded, mostly women, with a few of the younger boys. Half of the servants scattered in embarrassment when I walked in, despite my protest, leaving the women who actually worked in the kitchen turning back to their jobs, although they watched me out of the corners of their eyes. Their expressions ranged from fear to resentment.

  “I am sorry,” I said. Always good to start with an apology. “The policeman went to look for Gabriela, my husband went to talk to Father Constantin, and I…I didn’t want to be alone. I’m a terrible cook, but is there anything I can do? Peel carrots, fold napkins, polish the teaspoons?”

  They did not know what to make of this. A guest, of their Queen, doing scullery tasks? Unthinkable. However, this was an unthinkable day, and they felt sorry for me. Plus, I was a foreigner—who knew what bizarre habits foreign women had? In the end, female solidarity edged out class structure, and I was given some very clean carrots and a very clean apron, and settled into the best chair in the room to scrape.

  Absolute silence held for a solid five minutes, broken only by my asking for reassurance that I was doing an adequate job. Hackles subsided, attention slipped away from me, and a couple of stilted, task-related exchanges broke the ice. In fits and starts, conversation resumed. I scraped industriously away, head down, producing the slowest but tidiest carrots that kitchen had ever seen.

  Naturally, I could only follow the vaguest gist of what the women were talking about, with the occasional key word emerging from the flow. Gabi, castle, father, sister, home, dog, motorcar—they were reviewing what facts they had: that Gabi had left and her father had come after her, with speculations over why the dogs had not barked and whether any strange motorcar might have come through Bran.

  I waited until I had become quite invisible, and then spoke into a brief lull in the talk.

  “They found her necklace,” I said.

  Every head there swivelled to look at me, even the women who spoke no English. I diligently scraped for a bit, then looked up in surprise. “Sorry, I was just saying. The husband of Gabriela’s sister—I don’t know his name?”

  “Radu,” someone provided.

  “Radu found Gabi’s necklace. With the pretty little cross?” My fingers went to the high neck of my shirt, by way of illustration. “It was on the side of the road. Near her house.”

  Five of the women demanded to know what I had just said. Two of the others provided translation. I kept scraping my carrots.

  The cook herself abandoned her ladle and came to sit across the table from me.

  “Gabi was taken?” she asked, her English heavily accented but clear enough.

  “I think so. Inspector Dragomir thinks so.”

  She shook her head in despair. When the Greek chorus in the background had subsided, I asked, “Do you know Dragomir? Is he good?”

  A low burst of conversation, both translating and exchanging opinions, but the cook did not require them. “He is good man. I have sister in Brașov, husband bad, Dragomir send him to prison.”

  Some of the others nodded their agreement.

  “I am glad. He seems…” The word competent would go over their heads. “…good at his job.”

  She nodded. “He very—” but the word she used sounded like incapacity, which did not go with the nod. When I frowned, she searched for an Engl
ish alternative. “Stubborn?”

  “Ah, yes. Stubborn is a good thing, in a policeman.”

  “Sometimes,” she said with an unexpected twinkle.

  “I know that a village girl went away, in the spring. In March, with her boyfriend. What about Gabi? Does she have a boyfriend?”

  “Friends, no boyfriends.”

  “Girls? That she is close to? A sister in Bucharest, or something?” I asked, thinking of Vera Dumitru.

  “Just sister here, and most friends here in Bran.”

  “Still, she can’t be too happy at home, with a father who drinks.”

  An eloquent shrug. “Men drink. Her papa not bad drunk. Not bruta.”

  “He doesn’t hit her?”

  “No, no. Just…sad? Sad. Wife die, son die, hurt leg, so drink.”

  I had to agree: if Gabriela Stoica had wanted to get away from her father, it would have been a planned escape, not one that left her necklace on the side of the road.

  “Have there been women in the area, maybe even Brașov, who have been attacked?”

  This caused considerable discussion, but from the thoughtful looks and lack of exclamations, I could tell what the answer was going to be.

  “Not in some time. After War, was crazy soldier, attack three girls. Not since then.”

  “Was that a local man? Could he have got out of prison?”

  “No. Other man kill him there.”

  So a literal dead end.

  The next bit would be tricky, since I did not want the castle staff to imagine that I was suggesting their master as a suspect. Though of course, he was. “What about Mr Florescu’s other…” I searched for an alternative to protégées. “Nieces, nephews, young friends? Any of them ’specially good friends with Gabi? Someone she would go to if she had a problem?”

  In other words, someone she would not mistrust along the road until it was too late.

  I tried to follow the discussion, which involved names that I did not recognise.