Sherlock Holmes and The Case of The Bulgarian Codex

Chapter XXI IN WHICH HOLMES SPRINGS FURTHER SURPRISES

IT was the morning of our departure. Our princely host assigned a chauffeur to drive us in the Royal Mercedes to the Danube ferry. I was like a horse smelling its home stables. In three or four days’ time we would be back in Baker Street. We would look down at the bright glint of straw adrift across the street, sniffing the perfume of coffee, the savour of bacon and sausages. We would once again be enveloped in an endless rumble of commissariat wagons rattling like plague-carts, the soul of London, the great ground-bass of London awake, as the poetic American traveller Madox Hueffer put it to me.

I followed the hotel porter down with our boxes, reflecting on the rhythm of our cases, dimly discerning certain dominant harmonies. Each was a play in three acts, the first with the freshness of the first raindrops of the Monsoon, our dinner at Simpson’s Grand Cigar Divan; the second dark, sumptuous and violent, the Prince’s fairy-tale palace, the murder, the vampire-ridden forests of Mount Vitosh. Now we would take our bow and glide out silently, in the English fashion, like the calm of a great ocean following the storm.

At the Palace, we climbed the Red Staircase for the last time. Sir Penderel Moon was waiting in an ante-chamber. He greeted us warmly. ‘Mr Holmes, and you too, Dr Watson, I must thank you both from the bottom of my heart over the Barrington matter. You have solved a despicable crime.’

‘Will you be asking Her Majesty’s Government to make a formal protest?’ I enquired. ‘The Prince seems to have been deeply implicated in Julia’s murder. Regardless of her subterfuge, she was a British citizen.’

The Legate’s cheery smile froze. ‘Dr. Watson!’ he returned with a horrified look. ‘Would you grant Kalchoff in death his greatest wish in life - to drive the Prince into the arms of the Hun?’ He shook his head vehemently. ‘It is vital the matter is left to settle quietly and discreetly. In all Europe Great Britain has no ally, and it may be doubted if she even has a friend. We have no need to add more hatred. Her Majesty’s Government intends to make no protestation regarding the murder.’

Realising how taken aback I was by his words, in a calmer but still-urgent tone he went on, ‘You must forgive me. I am not here to wish you God-speed but to inform you that Downing Street begs you to tell nobody of these events. To make them public would deeply embarrass and undermine the Prince. Imagine your charge being laid before the Cabinets of the Great Powers. In common manhood they would feel obliged to take the matter up. It would set in motion a very active press-service throughout Europe and beyond. From an excess of pique, the Prince might well forge an alliance with the Kaiser and the Sublime Porte. The Balkans are poorly provided with roads and means of communications. The Bulgarian railway tracks would offer a most efficient link between the two Empires, to great military and commercial value. It would be gravely to the detriment of peace in our time.’

He shook his head. ‘No! And again no! Singular chance put in your way a most whimsical problem. Its solution must be your only reward. Captain Barrington will disappear for ever, the case never resolved. He will become a Balkan legend, sighted on moonlight nights on the slopes of Mount Vitosh, an Englishman in full dress uniform, riding a great charger, bearing who knows what message from the nether regions. If you weaken Ferdinand by implying he condoned, even instigated the murder - above all, that the murdered husband of a woman long rumoured to be the object of desire by the Knyaz himself turned out to be female, a female whose wondrous mustachios were a deliberate copy of the Prince’s - why, the whole of Europe would laugh themselves silly! Under the avalanche of mockery and scorn, the Russian Tsar may well seize the opportunity to send his armies across the Danube and replace Prince Ferdinand with a Grand Duke of his own choosing. Soon the summer grass will be growing fast, the Tsar’s cavalry would grow fat on its way to burn the Palace to a cinder. Dr. Watson, you are a military man. Look in the direction of the Danube with a telescope. Even from here you will see a hundred heliographs and a thousand observation-balloons winking and glinting in the evening sky. Precisely how long could Ferdinand’s light field-batteries hold out against five Divisions of Cossack irregulars, each mounted rifleman equipped with three of the most modern magazine-rifles, and backed by the heaviest field-guns yet built?’

The Legate stretched out his hands. ‘To you both must accrue the satisfaction of knowing you have solved a despicable crime and that the perpetrator is dead. I repeat, for the sake of peace in our time, you must never repeat a word of this to anyone. Never.’

He broke off to stare hard at me. ‘Dr. Watson, you can achieve great effect through your pen. You may rightly feel all Europe should ring with your comrade’s name, that Mr. Holmes should be ankle-deep with congratulatory telegrams. May I have your - ’

‘I give you my word,’ I conceded reluctantly.

‘No reference to the matter at all, either spoken or in writing?’

‘I have pledged my word.’

At that moment the Prince arrived.

Sir Penderel lowered his voice, ‘Unless of course the fellow loses his throne.’

Ferdinand was beautifully attired in a shimmering gold tunic, black breeches, and a large black beret surmounted by a lightly jewelled gold aigrette. In his right hand he carried the sword stick like a baton. ‘I designed this uniform myself,’ he explained with a hint of self-mockery. ‘I have given myself a promotion. Yes, Dr. Watson, we Balkan Princes can do that sort of thing. Enough of being just a General. As from today, I am the first Bulgarian Field Marshal in the history of the world.’

The four of us walked down the grand staircase towards our waiting vehicle.

‘You will be safer crossing my country by road rather than rail,’ Ferdinand said. ‘The Bulgarian railways are heavily supported by assassins and spies without number wandering back and forth between Vienna and Stamboul like souls adrift in Dante’s Inferno, l sol tace. My driver will take you to the ferry-boat and see you across the Danube in time to catch the Orient Express to Paris. My private carriages will again be at your disposal. Gentlemen, I cannot exaggerate the pleasure I have had from your presence in my country. I hope this will not be the last visit you make.’ He added with a mischievous smile, ‘I shall have to think up more plots to get you here.’

From slightly behind me, Holmes’s hand came forward, stretching towards our host. It held a telegram. The Prince took the envelope, removed the slip of paper, and held it out in the sunlight to read. He looked at Holmes sharply, his eyes wide, as though a stab of fear was passing through him. Then, just as suddenly, his face broke into a grin of delight.

‘Mr. Sherlock Holmes,’ the Prince continued, thrusting the telegram back into my comrade’s waiting hand, ‘not for nothing are you known as the Baker Street Demon. Your skill has exceeded all that I have heard of it. You are indeed the master.’

Holmes returned the telegram to a pocket in his Poshteen Long Coat and acknowledged the compliment with a slight nod. We turned and stepped away. Even before we reached the vehicle the Prince bent his face into his hands, wracked by a burst of unstoppable laughter, then, regaining his full height and a solemn expression, he raised a hand in a military salute.

From the comfortable seats of our vehicle, I turned for one last sight of the bewitching palace. A bemused Sir Penderel was staring at the Prince. Ferdinand bent over again, shaking with compulsive laughter, waving the sword stick above his back. We turned a corner. The Prince and his Palace were lost to sight.

When the noise of the wind and the vehicle’s motor made it impossible for our driver to hear my words I turned to my companion.

‘Holmes, I am unable to contain my curiosity for a moment longer. What was that telegram all about?’

‘It was merely a message from the Library of the British Museum.’

‘A message from the Library of the British Museum?’ I parroted in wonderment. ‘And on what subject were you in touch with the British Museum?’

‘The preservation of ancient parchments.’

His brevity exasperated me. ‘Holmes, I insist on the detail! What did the Library say about the preservation of ancient parchments? Why should such information first seem to put the fear of God into the Prince and then make him nearly collapse with laughter?’

‘It concerns the Codex.’

‘Ah, the Codex, of course!’ I responded with a chortle. ‘I shall never forget the look on his face when he found it had been returned. The very name Sherlock Holmes must have - ’

‘It may not have been as great a surprise to Ferdinand as you imagine,’ my comrade interrupted.

I swivelled to look directly at him.

‘By which you mean - ?’

‘To judge from your expression, Watson, the Prince must truly be as consummate an actor as the Roman emperor Nero. You recall my axiom that misdeeds bear a family resemblance? That if you have the details of a thousand at your finger’s end, it is odd if you are unable to unravel the thousand and first? What of the distant echo of The Adventure of the Second Stain? Tell me, according to the Prince, how long had the Codex been stored in that cave?’

‘Almost from the day he took the throne.’

‘So he informed us. How long has that been?’

‘Twelve years.’

‘Thirteen to be exact, since 1887,’ Holmes replied. ‘He has a superstitious aversion to the number thirteen, hence he used twelve. Nevertheless, even one year would have been out of the question, let alone a baker’s dozen.’

‘I don’t follow you, Holmes.’

‘He gave us four reasons for hiding the Codex in the cliff-caves, one supernatural, and three scientific. Do you recall the latter?’

‘I have them written down,’ I replied.

‘There is some way to go before we reach the River Danube, perhaps you would be kind enough - ?’ He pointed to my Gladstone bag.

I pulled it to me and retrieved my note-book.

‘So, Watson, my dear friend, the first - ?’

‘The air in the cave interior is absolutely clean and free of dust.’

‘Good! And the second?’

‘The cave interior shields the Codex from bright light.’

‘Sunlight especially. Third?’

‘The ambient temperature is quite low. It hardly varies a degree throughout the year.’

‘Being?’

‘A permanent 11 to 12 degrees Centigrade.’

‘In our language that would be?’

‘A little over 50 degrees Fahrenheit.’

‘All in all, the caves would appear to be the perfect place to store so venerable a manuscript, don’t you agree?’

‘They would, Holmes,’ I replied. ‘So why - ?’

‘My dear fellow, there was one absolutely vital matter which our wily friend chose not to mention.’

‘That being?’

Holmes withdrew the telegram from a pocket and handed it to me.

‘Read it aloud,’ he commanded. ‘I congratulate you, Watson. It was you who gave me the clue.’

Deeply engaged by Holmes’s complimentary remark, I began, ‘‘Preservation of ancient manuscripts. Fumigate and store in a dust-free environment. Low light and temperature levels are critical. Exposure to sunlight should be kept to the absolute minimum. As a rule of thumb, the lower and more consistent the temperature the better’.’

My eyebrows gathered in a frown. ‘Well, Holmes, so far it seems - ’

‘Please read on, dear chap.’

I went on, ‘‘However, in the experience of the British Library the most critical requirement for conservation is low relative humidity, between a minimum of 30% and a maximum of 50%. This prevents the growth of fungi (mould and mildew). Relative humidities at the lower end of this range are preferable since deterioration takes place at a slower rate’.’

I looked up at my companion with a puzzled expression. ‘Holmes, you said I gave you the clue - what clue?’

‘Humidity,’ Holmes repeated. ‘The fourth ingredient. The most vital of them all. When we set off from Sofia the Prince told us the monks used to produce a special wine in the galleries of the caves. According to him, it closely resembled the wine produced in Champagne - do you recall his peroration on the wines of Bulgaria?’

‘I do, yes,’ I replied, ‘but - ’

‘Anyone with the Prince’s knowledge of alchemy is aware that high humidity is an essential part of producing such wines. Humidity over 75% for red wine and over 85% for the white is ideal for wine-ageing and barrel storage. You must recall the extreme humidity of the Baptistery?’

‘It was very humid, certainly.’

‘About 80%, I would estimate. Would you agree?’

‘It was quite like the approach of the South Asia monsoon season, yes.’

‘I have remarked on this before, Watson, that you have been of the most vital use to me in several of our cases, and again in this. I spotted how you sweated like a pig despite the modest temperature. It certainly suggests your Polka and Mazurka days are over, my dear fellow. No more quick-stepping to a Fife and Drum band, you must embrace the Waltz and the Two-Step. Even before we reached the Altar stone it seemed odd to me that a manuscript of such antiquity and mystical power would be left in such conditions. I realised at once it was never taken from its hiding-place BECAUSE IT WAS NEVER STORED THERE. At most the Codex had been placed in the caves a matter of days, even hours, before our arrival.’

‘But the Prince said he had sought the advice of the British Museum, the very source you - ’

‘Certainly he said that, though I suggest it was extremely unlikely, or at the very least we can say he didn’t follow it,’ Holmes replied laughing.

‘Then why - ?’

‘Our friend needed to remove himself from the Capital while the murder of Captain Barrington took place. By dreaming up the theft of the Codex the Prince had a fine excuse to invite us to his country. By pretending the Codex had been stored in those far-off caves, he had reason to take us on a trip lasting at least three days.’

‘He must have overlooked what a fine chemist you are, until you handed him the telegram. That’s when he realised you had seen through the deception all along.’

‘He realised it at once.’

‘Which explains why he - ’

‘Scowled? Yes. His first thought must have been I was about to expose his trickery to the world. Within seconds it dawned upon him we must have been silenced. Why otherwise would I hand him the evidence which could indicate the disappearance of the Codex was part of a murderous plot? Why not simply put such information in the hands of Messrs. Reuter or the Balkan correspondent of the Pall Mall Gazette and let public uproar take its course? The Prince realised our own Government had hamstrung us. That was when he burst into laughter.’

Holmes shook his head with a glance of comic resignation and gave a chuckle. ‘There never was, and never will be another Prince as foxy as Ferdinand. We must hope to encounter him again.’

I pondered on this unexpected revelation.

‘Holmes,’ I returned, ‘that leads me to something which puzzles me still - even now there are matters still dark to me.’

‘Ask on, my friend. I shall be your fellow prisoner for some hours in this contraption. You are very welcome to put any questions you like.’

‘My first is, I am sure, a very minor one, Holmes, so please don’t jump down my throat - when we left the Barrington villa after our first visit, you asked me if I had noted the presence of a tantalus containing brandy and whisky. I had not. Nor had I noted decanters of gins or vermouths and kirsches. Was the absence of spirits of especial importance?’

‘The lack of a tantalus struck me as odd. It followed on the heels of my first observation, that Barrington’s mustachios had changed not a jot between his marriage photo and the painting by Sargent a year later. I can see that a Captain in the Connaught Rangers could conceivably have settled into the life of a teetotaller upon marrying - I recall you giving up drink when you tied the knot with Miss Morstan - but surely he would not inflict his new-found temperance on every one of his guests? What of visits by officers of his old regiment? What choice words would they use in the face of an offer of a milky Advokaats?’

‘How do you explain this oddity, Holmes?’

‘Simply by deducing the Barringtons invited no-one to hobnob at their villa, particularly anyone who could discuss military affairs or might have served in Africa with the real Captain Barrington. You and I were allowed in only in extremis. And we can deduce neither Mrs. Barrington nor Julia touched alcohol themselves except for the Advocaats.’

I digested his words for some moments and continued, ‘Holmes, I have a further question. When we were in the forest glade, you said that Julia’s cold-blooded killer deserved the hangman’s noose, that of the 40-odd murderers in your career so far - ’

‘ - he, most emphatically of them all,’ Holmes affirmed.

‘Yet as soon as you deduced it was Colonel Kalchoff you invented a device to expose him in front of Ferdinand of all people - and in the Prince’s private quarters. Why didn’t you oblige Kalchoff to face a Court of Law? Who could possibly listen to your reasoning and have any doubts as to the man’s guilt!’

‘Where was our evidence? What violent enmity did he bear towards this murdered woman, a complete stranger to him and everyone else? Where was the note calling Barrington to the obrok? What of the monogrammed handkerchief he didn’t drop?’

He gave a short, sardonic laugh. ‘No, my friend, no gallows awaited him. Even an Old Bailey jury packed full of honest Englishmen would have set our Colonel free in the blink of an eye.’

It dawned upon me. I stared at my companion aghast.

‘Holmes, are you saying you engineered the photographic session at the Palace solely to lure Kalchoff - ’

‘ - to his death? Of course! It was a deliberate ambuscade, a private court-martial. How else would a great danger to England be removed? How else would the dead woman have been revenged? How else would Mrs. Barrington be freed of this cousin before he could take her lands - and probably her life? It was serendipity indeed when the Prince gave you the Sanderson camera. Kalchoff saw us flinging ourselves from the theatre. No more than a day would pass before he discovered our destination was not the midnight train to Paris but the body in the Mausoleum. From there it would be a matter of moments before he worked out that the one clue pointing towards the murderer lay with those mustachios, that his foolhardy use of them for the Sherlock Holmes competition now threatened his liberty, even his life.’

‘Holmes,’ I protested, ‘surely you could not anticipate the Prince would stick a sword through Kalchoff’s throat the moment you - ’

‘ - proved the mustachios could only have been Julia’s in her disguise as Captain Barrington? Not only did I foresee it, I depended upon it. Any delay in ending Kalchoff’s life would have given him time to perpetrate some fresh atrocity. I smiled to myself when upon our entry I saw the Prince held the paint brush in one hand, the sword stick in the other. Our client knew that even he may not be safe from the War Minister’s obsessive ambition once Kalchoff realised the Prince’s intentions towards Mrs. Barrington.’

‘But what of your maxim that justice must be done, that the depravity of the victim is no condonement in the eyes of the law?’

‘My dear fellow,’ Holmes replied calmly, ‘once in a while we must make our plea to a higher, purer law. You recall your words upon the murder of Charles Augustus Milverton, “that it was no affair of ours; that justice had overtaken a villain”, and my words which you quote so inimitably in the Adventure of the Speckled Band regarding Dr. Grimesby Roylott, that I cannot say his terrible death is likely to weigh very heavily upon my conscience?’

Not for the first time in our long career together I realised it was Holmes’s contradictory nature, his Celtic insight that faith in reason cannot be absolute, which was and remains the engine propelling him so swiftly and inexorably along the path from mortal to myth.

My thoughts returned to the beautiful Bulgarian women we had left behind. None of us is the youngest we have ever been, I thought ruefully, but Holmes’s unthinking offer of me as her next Best Man was a forcible reminder of my advancing years. What would happen to her now?

We came to a long straight stretch of road. The chauffeur reached to one side and passed back a bulky package wrapped in French serge. It contained a butcher-blue tunic, high collar with three stars, and a hat adorned with pale-green feathers, the ceremonial uniform of an Austrian cavalry general. Beneath the tunic lay black trousers with red stripes down the sides and a gold-braided Bauchband with tassels. A page of fine pink notepaper lay half tucked into a pocket. I could hear Foxy Ferdinand’s voice as I read his words to my comrade-in-arms:

‘“Dear Mr. Holmes, my tailor Hammond in the Place Vendôme created this uniform for your brother. When I am next in London I should like Mycroft to receive me in it at Victoria Station where he and I will pose for Dr. Watson and his camera. I have pinned to the tunic a new Order which I have just invented, the National Order of Military Merit, Grand Cross. Let me know if you would like me to invent a similar Order for you in recognition of your great service to my country in recovering the Codex Zographensis”.’

There was a scrawled post-script. ‘If not a military order, I am cultivating a new type of rose with four very pretty scarlet petals which I could name Rosa sherlockholmesia.’

This was followed by a Post-post-script: ‘I forgot to inform you during your stay that His Imperial Majesty, The Sultan Abdülhamid II, Emperor of the Ottomans, Caliph of the Faithful (also known as The Crimson Sultan), wished you to travel on to an audience with him in the Sublime Porte, as he is a long-time admirer of your skill as a consulting detective. Apologies for failing to pass his invitation on to you in time. It quite slipped my mind.’