Sherlock Holmes and The Case of The Bulgarian Codex

Chapter XIX DÉNOUEMENT

TO my immense relief Holmes led us out of the Mausoleum. We found ourselves once more on the dusty square. The halberdiers, deeply disconcerted by the custodian’s headlong flight through their cordon, fell away in confusion. I chided my companion immediately. ‘Holmes, kissing a dead woman on the mouth is not something I would expect - ’

He interrupted me with a grim but satisfied look. ‘Pshaw, Watson! I can assure you the meeting of our lips was as instructive as a meeting of our minds. I have in my hands,’ he continued confidently, ‘all the threads which have formed such a tangle.’

‘Then I wish you would put me out of my bewilderment!’ I exclaimed. ‘Never in all my years with you - ’

‘My dear Watson,’ my comrade returned, ‘I do not wish to make a mystery but a little over-precipitance may ruin all. We must move with great speed, otherwise I would put you out of your misery. Soon I shall lay an account of the case before you in its due order, showing you the various points which guided me in my deduction. I merely remind you that women are naturally secretive, and they like to do their own secreting.’

I was not to be silenced. ‘I have no doubt even a connection between old Army boots and a Turkish bath is perfectly self-evident to a logical mind, and yet I should be obliged if you would indicate what in the name of the Almighty could you discover by giving the cadaver so - so - muscular a kiss on the mouth? I would never have expected - ’

‘My dear sir,’ Holmes broke back impatiently, ‘in your time in my wake what you would never have expected would fill far more battered tin-boxes than the dozen or so shilling dreadfuls you have so far managed to scribble.’ He continued in a more placatory tone, ‘I tell you we are enveloped in a riddle wrapped in a mystery as deep and complex as anything we have ever confronted. Remind me, what was your explanation for the abrasions on her face?’

‘Clearly the assailant’s beard rubbed savagely against her cheeks,’ I replied. ‘What else could it be?’

‘An ingenious and not entirely impossible supposition. However, I would call your attention very particularly to two points. First, why does the faint smell of mastic cling to those cheeks? Furthermore, if yours is the correct explanation, why was the light down hair one would expect on the woman’s upper lip completely absent, a fact I discovered by snorting away the lavender powder and thrusting aside the lip-paint with my - as you say - muscular kiss? If you provide an explanation for those puzzling facts you have solved the riddle of the missing husband.’

‘The missing husband!’ I exclaimed, astounded. ‘What connexion could there be between this poor woman and Captain Barrington? Are you suggesting she was his mistress - that he murdered her for fear of exposure and fled abroad?’

My comrade shook his head. ‘If that were true, then the case is at an end. We could set Harker of the Central Press Syndicate on him, or the Baker Street Irregulars. Or place an advertisement in the London Telegraph and offer a generous reward for information on the Captain’s whereabouts.’

He looked at me gravely. ‘No, Watson, I say we must move with the utmost speed. I believe the life of someone you have a soft spot for is in the most imminent danger.’

‘Who might that - ’ I asked, surprised.

‘Mrs. Barrington, of course,’ came the answer.

‘Mrs. Barrington?’ I repeated, gaping at my companion. ‘Why should anyone want to harm - ’

My companion brushed my words aside. ‘Not now, Watson,’ he returned. ‘Tell me, that photographic contraption given to you by the Prince, the bellows camera - are you able to work its magic?’

‘Certainly,’ I plumed. ‘Up the Grim we - ’

‘Then have a message delivered to the Palace tonight as follows: ‘Your Highness, with the unexpected return of the Codex there is nothing to keep us any longer in your country. We intend to return to England very shortly. Before departing, Dr. Watson has a small favour to ask. Please arrange for the War Minister to pose for the camera in the caparison for which we will always remember him, as the winner of the Sherlock Holmes competition. SH’.’

I exclaimed, ‘What a fine idea. What a wonderful souvenir of our time in the Balkans! I shall offer it to my Editor to accompany the adventure I plan to title The Case of The Bulgarian Codex.’

‘As you wish. And Watson, along with the camera, do not fail to bring your service revolver.’

These words from Holmes, following close on his remark that Mrs. Barrington’s life was in great danger, brought me up short. I had not up to this point taken a very serious view of the case. It seemed grotesque and bizarre rather than perilous.

While I absorbed this unexpected command, my comrade resumed, ‘I have one more important task for you. Even if you have to force him from his bed this night, ask Penderel Moon to send an urgent reply-paid telegram to the manager of the Tivoli Theatre. There is a point I wish to ascertain.’

‘Which is?’ I asked, suspending my propelling pencil.

‘Who topped the bill during the early part of April two years ago?’

The next morning the British Legation forwarded the theatre manager’s reply to our hotel. I hastened telegram in hand to Holmes’s room. He was seated in an alcove puffing on a large cigar, his feet thrust into red heelless Turkish slippers provided by the hotel. His back was to me as he gazed out on a cemetery. The tombs were simple flagstones level with the ground without crosses or columns or stelae. Scattered families sat among them in the cool air conversing with the Departed, some with little birds in cages.

Without looking round, Holmes waved me to an armchair. A hand rose over his shoulder. It pointed in the direction of a small side-table supporting several more cigars wrapped up in silver paper.

‘Do try one, Watson. They are a gift from the most devious Prince in Christendom. Don’t be alarmed - they don’t seem to be explosive. And help yourself to a cup of tea.’

He swung the chair to look at me. ‘Do I deduce from your energetic arrival and bewildered look that we have had a reply from London?’

‘We have, Holmes. You wanted to know who topped the bill at the Tivoli in early April two years ago, but for the life of me I can’t see - ’

‘ - why I would take an interest in Miss Vesta Tilley?’

‘Why, Holmes,’ I responded, gaping at him, ‘how ever did you - ?’

Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, a habit when in high spirits. He jumped up.

‘Later, Watson, later! Drink up your tea or abandon it. We must return to Mrs. Barrington’s. We are ready for the dénouement.’

Seated in the carriage my comrade’s eyes took on the introspective look I have observed whenever he exerts his full powers. What Holmes’ luminous intellect finds simple frequently bewilders me. Once again I had a sense it is not logic, cold and ordinary, which enables him to solve his cases. It is the clairvoyant’s eye for detail. Of the greats of the past, the giants on whose shoulders he modestly remarks he stands, he is most like Urbain Le Verrier, the mathematician who discovered the planet Neptune and determined its dimensions long before telescopes powerful enough to pick it out in the night sky were invented. Yet in this instance Holmes seemed determined to leave me completely in the same stygian dark.

Holmes was still resisting my demands for an explanation (“You have a grand gift of silence, Watson, now is a good time to exercise it.”) when we arrived at the Barrington villa. He banged at the door until the flustered housekeeper peered through a slit. Once more we were shown into the drawing-room. I waited for our hostess with a mix of trepidation and a high degree of irritation at Holmes’s reticence.

Soon Mrs. Barrington made her entrance. She wore a white cashmere costume with a band of lace some four inches wide encircling her waist. She greeted us with a bob and a gesture at her attire.

‘As you can see, I am hoping my husband will return at any moment,’ she explained.

Her appearance contradicted her optimistic words. With the passage of a single day her eyes had grown dark with sorrow. She plumped down on the fauteuil where she sat looking from one of us to the other with an uncertain smile. Her expression soon turned to one of apprehension, as though our sudden appearance and especially Holmes’s steadfast look had shaken her nerves.

Finally she offered, ‘Shall we return to the study?’ and once settled there she asked, ‘You have made progress, gentlemen? Have you any news of Captain Barrington?’

Holmes responded gravely. ‘We have come to tell you that half-confidences are worse than none, Mrs. Barrington. It is imperative you are absolutely frank with us. You failed to inform us of your visit to the Tivoli Theatre that early April, indeed you misled us by saying your chaperone had refused to allow you to attend. I understand why. The good Doctor here has made enquiry as to the playbill at the Tivoli at the time.’

A flush stole over Mrs. Barrington’s lovely face. She burst into a storm of passionate sobbing.

‘Holmes!’ I ejaculated, half-rising. ‘What in the name of - !’ I threw him a severe look. ‘You have badly hurt her feelings with your accusations!’

Deeply discomfited, I stared back and forth between the two. Several minutes went by before Mrs. Barrington regained her composure. Then Holmes said to her,

‘I beg you to lay before us everything that may help us in forming an opinion upon the matter. You must tell us the truth, for there lies your only hope of safety. I must advise you any circumlocution or concealment may quickly lead to your own death.’

Her breathing grew high and thin at Holmes’s ominous words. Her explanation began to flow like the bursting of a dam.

‘So you have discovered the secret of Captain Barrington,’ she addressed us, dabbing at her eyes.

‘Apparently my good friend has,’ I rejoined plaintively, ‘but as yet he has kept me in ignorance. I wonder if you might be kind enough to reveal any such secret to me?’

‘You have just been to the Coburg Mausoleum, have you not?’ came the response.

I nodded, bewildered. ‘We have, yes, but how does - ’

‘And you saw the body of the murdered woman lying there?’

‘We did.’

‘The corpse you saw there, as Mr. Holmes has deduced, is the body of my husband, Captain Barrington.’

My mouth dropped open in uncontrollable astonishment. ‘Good Lord!’ I exclaimed, and relapsed into a stunned silence.

Our hostess turned a dolorous gaze on my companion.

‘Mr. Holmes, I beg you to listen to my explanation. I throw myself on your honour and your love of justice. If our deception is to be revealed, so be it, but first let me tell you all. You must already understand it is an unusual story and of considerable complexity.’

We listened spellbound as she unfolded an extraordinary tale. At times she spoke in a voice so low that I could hardly catch the words but as I listened the mists in my own mind gradually cleared away.

‘I hope you will accept that everything my - husband - and I did was through my father’s concern for our family estates. I told you his exact words - “You must go to England, my daughter. The matter of your marriage is the greatest concern of my final days. If you are not married to an Englishman most urgently, Konstantin will steal our lands when I die.” I related how he chose Captain Barrington from the Kelly’s Handbook, the name kept to ourselves and revealed to no other. I described how I prepared my wardrobe to attend Mr. Fernie’s Billesdon Hunt, that I hired a box at Market Harborough and set about seeking out the eligible young Captain my father wished me to marry.’

She paused. With a strained look, she recommenced.

‘At Market Harborough I was brought to the Major-General charged with introducing me to eligible officers, though not fully apprised of my goal. One by one I met them - this is Lieutenant So-and-so, this is Captain So-and-so. None of them bore the name Barrington. Finally, at lunch, I mentioned Captain Barrington by name.

The Major-General looked startled. “Captain Barrington?” “Yes,” I replied. “Of the Connaught Rangers?” he asked. I confirmed this was so. He said, “I am sorry to tell you that he is no longer among the living”. You can imagine my horror!’ our hostess exclaimed, gulping in her throat to keep down her agitation.

She continued, ‘I asked him, “Was it from wounds he received in the Matabele War?” “No, he survived Africa and returned home,” he replied, “only to kill himself in a riding accident back here”.’

Mrs. Barrington looked at us beseechingly. ‘Imagine my plight. I must marry within days, only to discover the man my father had selected, the rescuer whose mercy I intended to beg, the man I hoped would consent to enter into marriage with me and oversee our family estates in Bulgaria and Hungary - was dead. I determined to leave Market Harborough the very next morning. I would send Mrs. Wheatley and her brother away, and return to Sofia, my whole mission an abject failure.

I left the lunch-table in tears. I had let down my dying father. I had failed the family estates. Unless I found a husband within the remaining hours of my father’s life, Konstantin would make a sudden move to seize everything. By now the huntsmen and the followers were flashing out in pursuit of a fox. Mr. Penderel led me outside where I mounted and followed. Soon, though, he had ridden ahead. A young Englishwoman with beautiful golden hair rode up to me. She told me her name was Julia. She had been looking for me. At the Major-General’s command, she was to stay with me during the afternoon. The Major-General himself no longer rode to hounds all day. He knew Mr. Penderel would be tempted by the fox and not remain at my side.’

Our hostess emitted a deep sigh. ‘Julia asked why I was so distressed. I poured out my heart to her. I explained why the matter was so urgent, how I could lose my estates to Konstantin. I told her I could stand this strain no longer; I should go mad if it continued. I translated into English the telegram which arrived that very morning from my family’s Land Agent telling me my father had but days to live, and would die without peace of mind unless I married without delay. I told her how Papa had chosen an English captain from Kelly’s Handbook, that I had come specially to Market Harborough to hunt for a husband rather than a fox, how horrified I had been when the Major-General told me Captain Barrington was dead.’

Our hostess paused to allow us to absorb the depths of her predicament.

‘And that was when she suggested you meet up in London?’ Holmes prompted.

Mrs. Barrington nodded. ‘Julia said she had an idea. She asked if I would return to London and accompany her to the Tivoli theatre the next evening, disguised and without a chaperone at my side. I agreed. We met in the foyer. She had been thinking hard about my situation. She told me she was intimately acquainted with someone I should marry, who would be willing to do so on the instant. I asked, “Who might that be? Is he an officer?” and she laughed, and said, “He could be - but wait until we have watched this evening’s performance”. We took our seats and very shortly bounding on to the stage was this handsome dandy, Burlington Bertie of Bow, singing The Latest Chap on Earth.’

Our hostess’s face lit up. She put her head up and in a delightful voice sang “He has the latest thing in collars, the latest thing in ties, The latest specimen of girly girls with the latest blue, blue eyes”.

‘And you had no idea Burlington Bertie was a male impersonator?’ I asked, unable to prevent myself laughing.

‘No idea at all,’ came the embarrassed reply. ‘The performance was without the slightest hint of grotesqueness or vulgarity. I knew nothing of male impersonators, and nothing about the famous Miss Tilley.’

‘Do continue,’ I begged.

‘When the performance came to an end I turned to Julia and said, “Now you must tell me your idea - tell me who will become my husband. How can you be certain that he will say yes?” At which she put an arm around my shoulder, looked straight into my eyes and said: “You are to marry me!”

“You!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, me. For your father’s sake. And to preserve your estates. It’s clear Captain Barrington is entirely unknown in Bulgaria. I shall become Captain Barrington. I have no family and I had intended to go to America to seek my fortune. No one will miss me. We shall only have to pretend for a year or two to stave off your cousin while you take full command of your estates.” And she added with a further laugh, “Then we can obtain a divorce”.

I was about to express my incredulity when she pointed towards the stage and said, “I know Burlington Bertie. He has invited us to go to his dressing-room”.

Without a further word she led me back-stage. Burlington Bertie - that is to say, Miss Tilley - grasped my cause immediately. The next morning she sent us to a military tailor to purchase a fine uniform. We spent the next few days with Miss Tilley while she taught Julia how to dress and act like a man.’

For several minutes Mrs. Barrington entertained us with the instruction her husband-to-be received from the great impersonator; how they purchased a close-cut black wig brushed straight back, pomaded with macassar oil; how Julia was taught to thicken her eyebrows with the eye-shadow and mascara used on the stage, and how to employ spirit gum (‘Here in Bulgaria we make use of mastic’) to hold a false beard or moustache in place, and how to develop masculine gestures and decisive, crisp movements.

Our hostess continued, ‘Finally we were sent to addresses in Soho to buy Julia’s compression shirts and built-up footwear, and to commission a pair of dyed-black mustachios, woven by skilled artisans from her own hair, to which by now I had taken my scissors. We emerged from the back of the Theatre to promenade up Regent Street and Portland Place to the Regent’s Park, Julia clad in her Captain’s uniform or one of Miss Tilley’s beautifully-tailored Savile Row suits, sporting the new mustachios.’

‘And no one gave you the slightest indication they considered you anything else but man and wife?’ I ventured.

‘Not one soul,’ she replied.

I asked, ‘And it was your idea that your husband-to-be should wear such mustachios because the Prince Regnant wears them?’

‘As you say, Dr. Watson. Like your Prince of Wales and his Homburg hats, men in Bulgaria copy every fashion set by the Knyaz.’

‘Did the wedding photograph reach your father in time?’ I enquired solicitously.

‘Yes, but only just. It meant that Papa died in peace. By the time Julia and I arrived here two weeks later he was with my mother in Paradise.’

Her face took on an ineffably sad look. She fidgeted with her enamel glove buttons. ‘Up to now,’ she continued, ‘our subterfuge has worked. Undoubtedly it forestalled Konstantin’s efforts to seize my lands.’

Tears started in her eyes. ‘Now she is gone I am completely alone. Konstantin will redouble his efforts to wrest my lands from me.’

Her beautiful face was distorted with a spasm of despair.

My companion and I sat in silence for some little time after listening to this extraordinary narrative. Holmes rose to his feet. ‘Madam, Dr. Watson and I may be able to do something about that. Let the weight of the matter rest upon us rather than you. We anticipate an appointment at the Palace very shortly.’

My spirits rose. When Holmes swoops, he swoops with the speed and certainty of the Indian kite-hawk.

He continued, in a gentler tone, ‘Should you wish to marry an English cavalry officer I am sure Watson here will find you someone suitable and would be pleased to be the Best Man. It would necessitate your returning to our shores.’

‘I shall bear that in mind, Mr. Holmes,’ came her whispered reply.