Sherlock Holmes and The Case of The Bulgarian Codex

Chapter XII IN WHICH HOLMES QUIZZES ME

THE Prince dropped us off at the Panachoff hotel. He requested, ‘Dr. Watson, when you publish this adventure, I know you must give your comrade the best lines but spare a few for me. I hope I have not been unamusing.’ At this he drove off, the cockerel that had grown a pair of horns still protesting on the roof-rack.

The Panachoff was a dilapidated yellow four-story edifice sited in pleasant gardens at the end of a long tree-lined avenue. In the heat of the day, the rooms were kept cool by tightly-closed wooden shutters. The occasional earthquake had caused heavy cracking in what was visible of the foundations. Although it was considered the best of Sofia’s few hotels, the wood had not been fully seasoned before the hotel was built. As a result unpleasant insects abounded, disturbing our sleep.

We decided to remain in Sofia only a day or two more, long enough for Holmes to take part in the first international Sherlock Holmes competition and for us to be guests of the British Legate for the Royal Command performance at the Alhambra Theatre. Despite the unexpected return of the Codex, the Prince insisted we retain the handsome fee. In addition our generous client presented me with the Sanderson Mahogany Bellows camera which accompanied us to the caves but which remained in its dust-proof container on the Lifu steamer’s roof. I determined to put the Sanderson to use during our return journey, diverting to capture for posterity the Alpine setting of Holmes’s great triumph over evil, the Reichenbach Falls, the place of death of ex-Professor James Moriarty.

I dressed for dinner, emerging to find Holmes looking out on to the street. His face was rigid. An English language newspaper lay open on the table. He pointed at it.

‘Watson, this was left for us by Sir Penderel. He has marked a piece on page two.’

I turned to the bold headline: ANOTHER ATTEMPT ON THE LIFE OF THE KNYAZ. FIERCE FIGHT.

I read aloud, ‘Two days ago, while showing our beautiful land to eminent foreign guests, there was an outrageous and violent attempt on the life of His Royal Highness, starting with a great explosion followed by a volley of dynamite cartridges. Unfortunately for the assassins and their evil pay-masters, the Prince was not in the least intimidated. According to the eyewitness account of the Royal chauffeur, His Royal Highness leapt from the vehicle and ran straight towards the assailants. Made fearful by our beloved ruler’s resolution, the assassins emerged like a plague of vermin from behind a boulder and rushed off towards scrubland. With shouts of scorn, the Knyaz fired several pistol shots, killing two attackers and wounding at least two more.’

A grotesque nature morte photograph accompanied the article. Two bodies were propped up against a stunted willow tree. The yellowy-white faces stood out in harsh and discordant contrast to the full Russian military uniforms in which they were dressed. It was known the Palace kept a supply of cadavers of failed assassins in reserve in a deep-freeze in the royal ice-house to put before the camera, clad according to the enemy of the day. One of the cadavers was the Russian agent Captain Nelidoff, executed some months earlier for his intrigues. Nelidoff’s corpse in a variety of uniforms had been of particular utility. It had the further benefit of pricking the authorities in Peterhof.

Perplexed, I put the newspaper down. ‘Holmes, we had no chauffeur except the Prince. I saw no evidence of shots from his palm pistol hitting our attackers. As to this photograph - ’

Holmes stared thoughtfully out of the window, so engrossed in his thoughts that he hardly made a return to my observation.

‘Clearly it was composed before we left Sofia,’ he responded at last, with an abstracted look. He left his seat to take a few turns up and down, pacing the room with his head sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped behind him. Finally he turned to engage me.

‘Watson, think back a little. When we set off on our journey with the Prince, how did he describe our destination?’

‘You mean the monastery complex of Ivanovo, in the valley of the Roussenski Lom River?’

‘Indeed, that was the location, but what of the direction?’

‘North-east, he said.’

‘Yet despite a principal thoroughfare heading in that direction we set off due east, towards the Eastern Rhodopes. Why?’

‘To throw off assassins in our wake?’ I offered. ‘Even then, look what happened at the Stone Wedding.’

My comrade continued to look thoughtful.

‘Perhaps,’ he responded. After a while he continued, ‘How would you describe our trip to the caves?’

‘Distinctly memorable, Holmes.’

‘Memorable, yes. And - ?’

‘The Prince was most companionable.’

‘Yes, very companionable. What else, my dear Boswell?’

‘Educational! I have never learnt so much about volcanic activity - phreatic eruptions, volcanic bombs, lapilli fragments! As to butterflies - !’

‘Indeed, butterflies,’ Holmes agreed, with an expressive tightening of the jaw. ‘It will take weeks to clear out Callophrys rubi and Erebia aethiops from my brain’s attic.’

‘As to the butterfly the Prince himself discovered in 1886 - Cupido decoloratus - ’

‘Cupido decoloratus, that too,’ Holmes responded, his lips beginning to twitch. ‘And the accounts of his botanical expeditions in search of the golden-yellow anagallis?’

‘Holmes, beetles! His devotion to zoology. Do you recall him telling us of all branches of zoology, the study of insects is the most attractive to him, and of all insects beetles are the species with which he is most familiar? And what of his hero Hristo Botev? Botev’s poem ‘To My Mother’, which the Prince recited with such feeling - ?’

‘Or his postage-stamps!’ Holmes added - cruelly, given the undeniable fact I had completely missed the point of his interrogation. He continued, ‘Are we ever likely to forget the several hours over our picnic meals looking through his stamp-collection?’

‘As you say!’ I enthused. ‘What a wonderful collection. The 1845 Basel Dove, not to forget the 1848 Perot Provisional! What concern for our enjoyment of the journey. You must admit his hospitality is of the highest rank.’

‘The highest, Watson. You are quite right to stress that. Therefore you will be providing your readers with an exact record of the hours His Highness regaled us with the circumstances of his birth - ?’

‘I shall consider it, Holmes,’ I responded, rather taken aback, given my companion’s well-known disdain for such things.

‘ - which, in case you did not take written notes at the time, went “I was born in Vienna, a Prince of the Koháry branch of the ducal family of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, the Koháry being descended from an immensely wealthy Upper Hungarian noble family which once held the Princely lands of Čabraď and Sitno in Slovakia, among others”.’

‘Bravo, Holmes! I shall keep your pointers and suggestions to the forefront of my mind as I write up these events, never fear.’

‘ - that “At my birth on February 26, 1861”,’ Holmes went on remorselessly, ‘“I was given the title Ferdinand Maximilian Karl Leopold Maria of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha-Koháry” - ’

‘I believe I may have missed that detail, Holmes,’ I replied, reaching for my note-book.

At this, my companion broke out into high-keyed laughter. ‘Watson, enough! When I asked how you would describe our journey to the caves, I did not refer to the subjects of our - or rather his - conversations!’

‘What then?’ I asked, perplexed.

‘I meant, by which means was our journey conducted?’

‘For the most part in a Lifu steamer.’

‘A vehicle capable of thirty-five miles an hour, is it not?’

‘Even more.’

‘So, I ask you, which phrase will you use to describe the manner of our journey to the caves? Will you call it break-neck?’

‘No, Holmes,’ I replied. ‘I would not say it was break-neck.’

‘Vertiginous?’

‘Not vertiginous,’ I replied firmly, my forehead wrinkling.

‘Headlong, perhaps?’

‘No, certainly not headlong.’

‘Nor hot-foot, I suppose?’

I frowned again. Where was Holmes going with this?

‘Not hot-foot, Holmes, not at all. I would not describe the pace as in any way precipitous.’

‘Rather, shall we say, in due course, you will be describing it in your chronicle as leisurely?’

‘I might do so, yes,’ I replied, nettled. ‘Thank you for that suggestion.’

‘For example, while we refilled our vehicle’s water-tank at Lake Srebarna, you will recall his lecture on the thirty-nine mammal species, the reptiles, amphibians and fish inhabiting the region, not to overlook the Dalmatian Pelican, the Greylag Goose, the Golden Eagle, the Egyptian Vulture, the Long-Legged Buzzard and the Ruddy Shelduck?’

‘I do certainly recall such a lecture, Holmes, though not in the precise detail.’

‘And our happy hours sitting in that peasant cottage among hens and two pigs while he discoursed in Bulgarian on his origins? Have you already forgotten?’

‘I recall the hens and pigs perfectly, Holmes,’ I replied with fast-diminishing patience.

‘Where we were also informed in a series of illuminating asides that his father Augustus was a brother of Ferdinand II of Portugal and a first cousin to both Queen Victoria and her husband Albert, Prince Consort?’

‘Holmes!’ I cried out, by now too exasperated to offer a temperate reply. ‘All right, I give in. Yes, the Prince did conduct us on a journey to the caves in a manner which could be termed unhurried, even-paced, even leisurely. We are guests in his country! For the love of heaven, may I ask what is your point?’

My companion’s tone turned from teasing to grave. ‘The point, Watson, is this: when the Prince arrived at our Baker Street lodgings - at the quarter to five in the morning, you may recall - he informed us he had hardly had a wink of sleep since the Codex disappeared, is that not so?’

‘He did.’

‘That the fate of his country and untold millions of lives depended on its speedy recovery?’

‘That was what he told us, yes.’

‘Furthermore, that the Tsar in Petersburg had long been plotting an attack, an invasion which could be prompted if news leaked out the Codex was missing, a massive military onslaught on this country from across the Danube which only the quick recovery of the Codex could forestall?’

‘He did describe those possible consequences, yes.’

‘And that its loss threatened a pivotal ceremony concerning his son?’

‘Yes, Holmes. He laid great emphasis on that.’

‘You took his concerns to be a fiction?’

‘Not at all!’ I cried. ‘Both your brother Mycroft and Sir Penderel have led us to believe the possibilities of his overthrow are entirely real.’

‘If the danger to his throne and dynasty were as immediate and grave as he portrayed it, we should have made a bee-line for the caves. Why did we not? Why so many diversions? The Prince’s overriding aim should not have been to educate his guests in the flora and fauna of Bulgaria, nor the long history of its monasteries, nor the Penny Black or the 1855 Three Skilling Banco with the yellow colour error, nor the Coburg lineage according to the Gospel of Luke, not even the Long-Legged Buzzard and the Ruddy Shelduck - but to ensure THE VERY SURVIVAL OF HIS THRONE AND DYNASTY. The Stone Wedding was at least 40 degrees off the line we should have taken. Lake Srebarna meant a further diversion of half a day. Why such a leisurely and discursive ramble on the way to the scene of the crime? Can you explain that?’

Holmes looked away. It was clear he was to be left to his thoughts. I still held the newspaper in my hand. I was about to toss it down when a small entry deep inside caught my eye, mentioning my companion by name. It was a piece copied from the Chicago Sun reporting on the death of Elmer M. Anderson, the most famous of the Pinkerton detectives, the apprehender of countless criminals during his twenty-three years with the Agency. The obituary related his final hour. ‘An intriguing account in the Strand Magazine of a murder solved, titled The Reigate Puzzle, was being read aloud to the dying man. Mr. Anderson lay in complete silence, apparently comatose, until the point came in the chronicle when the world-famous English Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes revealed his deduction. At this, the dying man reared up in his bed. “That’s got him!” he roared with delight. “By God, Holmes has done it again!”.’

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.’