Sherlock Holmes and The Case of The Bulgarian Codex

Chapter XIV THE STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE OF CAPTAIN BARRINGTON

THE next morning a phæton with extravagantly large wheels came from the British Legation to fetch us. Captain Barrington had not returned. We were dropped off at a fine villa near the Episcopal Palace. A maid took our cards into the interior. She reappeared and led us to a charming sitting room furnished in the English style.

Mrs. Barrington rose at our entrance. A light smell of English lavender came to us as we approached. She was slight, with small feet and hands. As linguistically gifted as the Prince Regnant, she spoke excellent and melodious English. She looked keenly at us, her aquamarine eyes - an unusual colour for a Bulgar - large and transparently clear, beneath thick, dark lashes. She wore a plain, tailor-made skirt with a white muslin blouse, the high neck supported by whalebone. Her hair was up in the latest fashion, coiled over the top of her head, puffed out into a great pompadour.

We were invited to occupy a sofa while our hostess sat across from us on a fauteuil.

The same maid who greeted us on our arrival returned with a tray of crystal glasses. Each glass of water held a long-handled spoon. Our hostess said, ‘You must try a speciality of the region. Mastic. It is derived from the resinous part of a plant found mostly on the Ægean island of Chios. We say it brings sweetness to the conversation.’

On instruction we dipped the spoons into the white paste, washing it down with the water. I pointed at a cabinet photograph she held on her lap. ‘Is that to help our investigation, Madam?’

She nodded. ‘It is the photograph taken on the day of our wedding.’

She lifted it by the mahogany frame and held it forward to Holmes, adding, ‘Please keep it with you for your search.’

My companion studied the photograph and passed it to me. It had been coloured in by an artistic hand. The smiling bride was magnificently attired in a Russian Boyar dress of gold-embroidered, mauve-coloured satin with a long overmantle of gold brocade and hanging sleeves of mauve velvet. On the plaited hair perched a large golden sun-shaped kokoshnik studded with pearls. She gazed out of the photograph with her head tilted in coquettish Dolly Varden fashion. In the background loomed the romantic and mediaeval image of Bodiam Castle in Sussex. The groom’s dark mustachios à la Prince Regnant were as Sir Penderel had described, particularly impressive.

I returned the photograph to my companion. As was his custom, he was looking Mrs. Barrington over in the minute and yet abstracted fashion which was peculiar to him. Not for the first time I noted that when he chooses, Holmes has a disarming way with women through which he very readily establishes terms of confidence with them.

The time came to obtain a detailed account of her husband’s disappearance. Mrs. Barrington rose. She led us through imposing double doors into a library or man’s study, distant from prying eyes or ears. She gestured graciously to quintessentially English, leather-upholstered chesterfield chairs. Within arm’s reach lay a tin of cigarettes. Holmes leaned forward and took one. She turned her luminous eyes upon me.

‘And you, sir, a cigarette? I can recommend them, for my husband has them specially prepared by Ionides of Alexandria. We keep them for connoisseurs like Mr. Holmes though Captain Barrington could hardly have expected such an eminent - ’

Her eyes moistened. Her voice died away in a beautiful cadence. She held out her hands as in supplication, compelling my respect and admiration. In spite of all her distraction there was a nobility in her bearing, a gallantry in the defiant chin and upraised head.

Prompted by our keen expressions, our hostess began to relate the circumstances of her husband’s disappearance, how he frequently rose early to exercise his favourite horse in the forests on the lower slopes of Mount Vitosh, always returning by dusk.

Mrs. Barrington turned to address me. ‘I believe you are most knowledgeable on horses, Dr. Watson? The horse in the photograph is my husband’s favourite. His name is Brigadier. We brought him back from England. He’s the one my husband was on when he left for the forest.’

I had taken note of Brigadier. He was a Haflinger, a well-muscled new breed, rich, golden chestnut in colour, with a refined head and light poll and a notable Arabian influence.

‘A fine choice of horse for mountainous terrain,’ I remarked.

My eyes drifted across to a large painting in oil on a gessoed poplar panel, signed by the greatest portrait painter of our time, the American John Singer Sargent.

Mrs. Barrington followed my gaze. ‘There too, you see me with my husband.’ She gestured. ‘And Brigadier.’

With her assent Holmes and I got back on our feet and went to the painting. Mrs. Barrington was depicted standing on a swathe of grass. She wore an ivory-white Persian dress and a white and green over-jacket, with a turban entwined with pearls. Her hair tumbled down her back from under it. Her smile, which we were not often to see, was striking. As though just put down, at her feet was a sarod, a musical instrument I had last heard strummed in a Kashmiri village. At her side, in lean silhouette, stood the missing husband, not tall but patrician in stance, once again in the full dress uniform of a Captain in the Connaught Rangers. The luxuriant black mustachios sprang out, so real I felt I could reach into the painting and twirl them.

My comrade produced a strong lens and leant into the painting to examine the Captain’s face with great intensity. What had attracted his ever-active attention, I wondered?

‘And this was painted when?’ he asked.

‘Just under a year ago,’ came the reply. ‘A wedding anniversary gift from the Knyaz.’

Holmes stood back and pointed from the painting to our hostess’s hair. ‘And the fine pair of diamond swallows in your hair, a family heirloom I presume?’

‘Not an heirloom,’ Mrs. Barrington responded.

‘What then, may I enquire?’ Holmes pursued.

‘Also a gift from the Knyaz. I have heard they were given to him by the Viennese actress Kathi Schratt.’

We returned to the sofa. Holmes gave Mrs. Barrington an encouraging look. ‘I wonder if you might recount the events leading up to your husband’s departure on this last occasion?’

She began, ‘We were engaged upon our toast and coffee in the morning. A stable-boy brought a note to the house. It was marked For Captain Barrington. Strictly Personal. The boy had no idea who delivered it. My husband read it and burst into laughter. He tucked the note in his pocket and said, “I have been offered a dare I cannot resist. I shall tell you all about it but not now as I must hurry”. I asked, “When will you be back?” He replied, “By dawn.” I exclaimed, “By dawn! Can’t you at least tell me what the note says?” but again he laughed and repeated, “Don’t worry, you’ll hear all about it tomorrow, I promise”. He told me he would return with a bouquet of cyclamen picked fresh in the forests of Mount Vitosh. He gave a droll click of his heels, raised a hand in a salute, and was gone.’

She pointed at the window. ‘A little later I saw him on Brigadier. He was turning the note this way and that. Then he rode off.’ After a pause she said quietly, ‘And he has not been seen since.’

My comrade asked, ‘Has it been Captain Barrington’s habit to stay away at night?’

‘Never before, no,’ she replied.

Overcome with curiosity, I asked, ‘Is it a general custom for beautiful Bulgarian women to marry officers of the British Army?’

Mrs. Barrington blushed. ‘No, I shouldn’t say it was customary by any means!’

Self-consciously I glanced across at my companion. I had expected to see him hiding a growing impatience under this inconsequential narrative, but, on the contrary, he was listening with the greatest concentration of attention.

‘In the possibility your marriage to an Englishman has a bearing on your husband’s disappearance, could you spare the time to tell my friend and me how such a marriage took place?’ Holmes requested.

‘To do so I need to go back some years, to when my father was alive,’ Mrs. Barrington replied. With a concerned look she added, ‘It is a story of some complexity. I - I do not know if you - ?’

‘Our time is entirely at your disposal,’ Holmes smiled reassuringly.

She began, ‘Our estates are so extensive it is said that one farm cannot see the chimney-smoke of another. My father owned more than a hundred thousand hectares of fertile lands and woods here in Bulgaria, and additional lands and villages in France, and Hungary, and elsewhere, I am told, much of which I have not seen.’ She paused. ‘And the story concerns a certain relative of mine. I believe you have met him.’

‘And who might that be?’ Holmes enquired.

‘He is one of the Prince’s chiefest lights, the War Minister.’

‘Colonel Kalchoff!’ I exclaimed, vividly recalling Mycroft’s cautionary words.

‘Yes. My family name is also Kalchoff. Konstantin is my cousin. He exerts himself at every turn to thwart my duties towards my estates.’

‘In what way do your family estates concern your cousin, may we ask?’ Holmes said.

‘His father and my father were brothers. Konstantin’s was the elder of the two. He predeceased my father by some years. If Konstantin had not been illegitimate he would have inherited all the Kalchoff lands. His desire to regain them quickly grew into an obsession. You may imagine my father’s relief when Konstantin left Sofia for Vienna to join the Austro-Hungarian Army. That was where he became excellent friends with a certain fellow Lieutenant.’

‘Would that be Prince Ferdinand?’ I enquired.

She nodded. ‘Some time passed peacefully, then, out of the blue, the previous Knyaz of Bulgaria was kidnapped and taken into exile by agents of the Russian Tsar. You can imagine our surprise when we heard Konstantin had successfully put Ferdinand’s name forward for election by the Grand Sobranje. My cousin returned in triumph to Sofia alongside the new Prince Regnant.’

‘And the matter of marrying an Englishman is in some way connected to this?’ I prompted.

‘My father was very friendly with the British Legate. Sir Penderel assured us that just as Ferdinand’s rule is the more safeguarded from outside intervention because he is a cousin of your Queen Victoria, so our family lands could be safeguarded from Konstantin - that is, my father and Sir Penderel were both convinced only through - ’ Her voice faltered. ‘My father was certain that my cousin could now wage a vendetta as powerful as that of any Macedonian to regain the lands which he felt were his birthright, unless - ’

‘Unless you married an Englishman?’ I interjected.

She nodded. ‘My mother died many years ago. Papa realised he would never have a son to inherit the family lands. He became impatient. “My daughter, as a woman you are very vulnerable,” he told me. “You must go to England. The matter of your marriage is the greatest concern of my last days on Earth. If you are not married to an Englishman by the day I die your cousin will steal our lands from you. Do not believe the Prince Regnant will safeguard you, rather he will aid and abet Konstantin”.’

Mrs. Barrington’s delicate white hand pointed over her shoulder at a copy of Kelly’s Handbook to the Titled, Landed and Official Classes standing alone on a tiny shelf.

‘Evening after evening I would watch my father turning the pages of the gazette you see behind me. He marked out the names of potential suitors. By then it was becoming clear he was gravely ill.’

‘And we must assume Captain Barrington was among the names,’ Holmes remarked. ‘Watson and I would find it of the utmost interest to know how you went about it.’

‘Again I have the British Legate to thank,’ Mrs. Barrington continued. ‘The English hunting season was under way. Sir Penderel told us there was no quicker way for ambitious young Military officers like Captain Barrington to achieve social ascendancy, even presentation at the British Court, than cutting a good figure at a famous Hunt. He said such men move heaven and earth to get to Mr. Fernie’s Billesdon Hunt at Market Harborough, its coverts venerated as the finest hunting in the world. Sir Penderel assured us that a personal invitation from Mr. Fernie, the Master of the Hunt, would soon follow if I wished to attend.’

After a reflective pause she resumed, ‘My father’s mind was made up. I was to leave for England as soon as I could be furnished with a suitable wardrobe.’

Our hostess laughed for the first time. ‘As you may already have noticed, there is no fashion in Sofia except those we emulate from the fine people of Paris, Pesth or Vienna. I studied the fashions in the latest La Mode Illustrée from Paris and Ladies Realm from London. Then I took my choices to the Sultana’s dressmaker in Stamboul.’

‘And now you were ready for England and Market Harborough,’ Holmes broke in, steering her back on track.

‘‘Sir Penderel took up my family’s endeavour with the greatest seriousness. He arranged for me to stay at the Ritz where a Mrs. Wheatley, a widow and distant cousin of his, would meet me each day to act as chaperone so I had a woman’s countenance on my visit. I needed to spend some days in London to get fitted for a Busvine riding habit if I were to appear at the Hunt. Many times I determined to catch the next train home to Sofia but I knew I had to honour the last request my dearest Papa would ever make. My only escape was in the evenings. My chaperone and her brother, Mr. Penderel, escorted me to your wonderful theatres and concert-halls. They transported me away from all my cares.’ She smiled. ‘However, when I wanted to visit a music hall as I had heard much of them, Mr. Penderel refused me my request outright.’

I asked, guessing at the probable reply, ‘And what was his reasoning behind this refusal?’

‘He told me it was infra dig for a woman of my - ’ Again she blushed, ‘ - class, even a foreigner!’

Holmes asked, ‘Was there any particular Hall you wished to attend?’

‘Why should you want to know that, Mr. Holmes?’ our hostess cried, astonished.

My friend could not restrain a chuckle at her confusion. ‘I am always glad of details,’ he remarked, ‘whether they seem to be relevant or not.’ He waved a hand in my direction. ‘You have a fellow enthusiast in my friend Dr. Watson. He does the rounds of all the music halls.’

‘The Tivoli,’ came her answer.

‘And this was when precisely?’ Holmes asked.

‘Why, it must now be two years ago.’

‘Early April?’

‘Yes.’

Holmes nodded. ‘Please continue.’

‘To make myself - ’ again she blushed in a most attractive way, ‘ - visible against all the competition, I was told to bind my hair up to show the nape of the neck, the veil should press on my face, liquid red on the lips. I exchanged the tall hat for an exotic turban tied tightly to avoid snagging on a passing branch if the pace got hectic. When my outfit was complete I hired a trap and set off for a hunting box on the Bowden Road with Mr. Penderel, himself an accomplished rider to hounds. They introduced me to Mr. Fernie. And thus the Season began for me.’

‘And that’s where you met and married Captain Barrington?’ I summed up.

She inclined her head.

‘If I may put this as delicately as possible, has a search been made in police stations and morgues for a body resembling his?’

It was I who asked this question.

Again she inclined her head. ‘All yesterday,’ she replied. A small tear ran down her face. We rose to our feet.

‘One last thing,’ I said. ‘Barrington is not an unusual name. There are to my knowledge half a dozen Captain Barringtons in England. In which regiment did he serve?’

‘The Connaught Rangers.’

With only the greatest difficulty I prevented my jaw from dropping. I stared at her sorrowing face.

‘The Connaught Rangers!’ I exclaimed. ‘But - ’

Holmes’s arm jerked sharply across my face. ‘Watson, I think we have enquired enough for the moment. For our hostess’s sake we must hasten this interview to an end.’

He turned to her with a slight bow. ‘Madam, I assure you we shall do our very best to discover the whereabouts of your husband.’

She rose from her chair with a little of the anxiety seeping from her face. My companion continued, ‘We shall take the wedding photograph with us, as you suggest. There is just one small favour I must ask of you.’

‘A favour? Whatever you wish.’

‘My good friend here made a small wager during our journey to your shores. I swore the Great British statesman William Ewart Gladstone was born in 1810. Watson had the temerity to insist it was 1809. I wonder if I may look quickly in your Kelly’s Handbook to settle which of us owes the other five guineas?’

Our hostess handed him the Kelly’s. Shaking his head ruefully he looked across and me and said, ‘Watson, you lucky devil. You are right. He was born in 1809.’

We moved towards the door. As we reached it, our hostess said, ‘My heart is lightened already since I have confided my trouble to you.’

Holmes turned once more as though to bow us out. Instead he asked, ‘Mrs. Barrington, in the unavoidable absence of your father, who performed his role at the wedding?’

‘Luckily, even at such short notice, an officer in the 3^rd battalion of the Coldstream Guards offered to give me away.’

‘His name?’

‘Lieutenant-Colonel James Grant.’

We waited outside the villa while a servant went to summon our vehicle. I seized my comrade by the arm. In an urgent whisper I said, ‘Holmes, what in heaven’s name is going on? The man she says she married - Captain Barrington of the Connaught Rangers - died in a hunting accident nearly four years ago. As to the man chosen to stand in her father’s place, it was announced in the Military Gazette that James Grant of the Coldstream Guards was the first British officer to die at the Battle of Kraaipand.’

Holmes looked grim. ‘I think we can say she underwent a rather unusual ceremony. There cannot be that many weddings - even among Bulgarians - where a bride is given away to a dead man - by a dead man.’

His brow furrowed. He went on, ‘A great deal of thread is piling up but I can’t get the end of it into my hand. Tell me, we were offered cigarettes but why nothing from the tantalus containing brandy and whisky?’

‘Holmes,’ I replied, ‘you are mistaken. Our hostess could not have offered us brandy or whisky from a tantalus. There was no such decanter present.’

‘What of gins, vermouths and kirsches in crystal ewers?’

Again I shook my head. ‘I saw only liquorice and almond emulsion. And what looked like the crimson of grenadine and garnett bitters.’

‘No long-necked carafes of the mysterious and sinful drinks beloved of the Officers’ Mess? Judging by the stains on your Mess Dress jacket, Army captains tend to the riotous.’

‘My dear Holmes,’ I retorted hotly, ‘I purchased that Mess Dress from the estate of the great explorer Arthur Conolly of the 1^st Bengal Light Cavalry. Those stains you refer to so disparagingly are from the finest champagne!’

‘You make my point, Watson. But please answer my question, you saw no Devil’s brew of any sort?’

‘A milky Advokaats, nothing more. What are you making of this, Holmes?’ I pursued.

‘Just as the presence of a kennel presupposes that of a dog, so the presence of a tantalus would indicate a steady supply of Regimental comrades, and by contrast its lack would - ’

He looked at me pensively. What did you make of her interest in the music hall?’

‘What of it?’ I asked, surprised. ‘She isn’t English. She might not know the Hall is nowhere for a lady to go - .’

‘I find it hard to believe that she would be so interested. Such sheet music as could make it to Sofia would hardly have entranced her - ribaldry about drink, debt, adversity, lodgers, overdue rent and bailiffs, mothers-in-law, hen-pecked husbands, unfaithful wives.’

The carriage drew up. As I clambered in, I asked, ‘What was all this nonsense about a bet on Gladstone’s date of birth?’

‘A ruse to get my hands on the Kelly’s Handbook. I wanted to know which edition her father consulted.’

‘Which was?’

‘It was published in 1895.’

‘Ah! Therefore - ’

‘ - by consulting the 1895 edition she and her father would reasonably have expected Barrington to be alive.’

‘So too the man she says gave her away.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Then how do you explain her marriage?’

‘Perhaps she married a charlatan. Heaven knows the fast set also turns out in numbers at Market Harborough - a hundred predatory males and females on the make.’

‘Why, Holmes,’ I exclaimed, outraged, ‘the utter cad!’ I shook my head angrily.

‘I am beginning to think that if something unpleasant has happened to this fellow, he deserves it. I suggest we return immediately to Mrs. Barrington and reveal his damnable trickery to her. What do you say?’

Holmes shook his head.

‘Patience, Watson, is what I say. One hardly likes to throw suspicion where there are no proofs. This promises to be one of the more curious cases in our long career together. It certainly presents more features of interest and more possibility of development than I had originally thought. I see some light in the darkness, but it may possibly flicker out. When I compared Captain Barrington’s face in the wedding photograph with Captain Barrington’s face in the Sargent painting I noted something singular. The facts are, to the best of my belief, even more unusual than the matter you described in your overblown way in The Red-Headed League.’