Sherlock Holmes and The Case of The Bulgarian Codex

Chapter II IN WHICH WE MEET A ROYAL PERSONAGE

BACK at our Baker Street lodgings, having dined, wined, and conversed at Simpson’s to a most heart-warming degree, I went to my bed leaving Holmes stooping over a retort and a test-tube. I fell at once into a peaceful sleep. It seemed hardly a minute passed before I awoke to a tapping at my door. Holmes was calling to me in a low urgent tone.

‘Watson, if you can spare the time I should be very glad of your company.’

It was pitch black. Only very gradually my misty brain took the words in.

I peered in the direction of the voice. ‘Holmes,’ I balked, ‘are we on fire?’ I struck a match and looked at my watch. ‘Heavens, my dear fellow, it’s half past four in the morning!’

‘Join me at our windows in ten minutes,’ came the reply. ‘I remind you our prospective client promised to arrive at five o’ clock.’

‘Whoever left the letter for us surely meant the more civilised hour of five in the afternoon!’ I protested.

‘My friend,’ came the amused reply, ‘no-one who commands Ariel to deliver his messages would come to our lodgings at five in the afternoon! At that hour half the world is out and about on Baker Street. A vital wish for privacy must bring our client here under the cover of a moonless night.’

I had hardly joined my fellow-lodger by a newly-lighted fire before his hand shot up. He glanced at me like a Baluchi hound. ‘Hark! If I am not mistaken, our man arrives early. L’exactitude est la politesse des rois. A motorised barouche is about to halt at our door.’

Galvanised, we hurried to a window and parted the blinds. A taxi, a Panhard-Levassor landaulet, approached the kerb, the folding top raised against a blustery shower. Even before the vehicle came to a stop the kerb-side door swung open. A remarkable apparition emerged.

It was not the man’s height, though considerable, which caught my immediate attention but his extraordinary attire. A black vizard mask concealed the upper part of his face, extending down past the cheekbones. Heavy bands of black astrakhan were slashed across the sleeves and fronts of a double-breasted coat. An Egyptian-blue cloak lined with flame-coloured silk was thrown over his shoulders. Boots extended halfway up his calves, trimmed at the tops with rich brown fur, completing a deliberate impression of barbaric opulence.

Readers may be familiar with A Scandal in Bohemia, the first of our cases published in the Strand, where a Royal personage clad in identical fashion sprang upon us in our modest lodgings like a puma launching from a Brazil Nut tree in the Mato Grosso.

A Scandal In Bohemia remains a cherished memory. I am reminded of the chronicle by the occasional glimpse of a magnificent snuffbox of old gold, with a great amethyst in the centre of the lid, presented to Holmes by the King.

‘Holmes,’ I exclaimed. ‘The Hereditary King of Bohemia has returned!’

My companion took his eyes from the Panhard-Levassor landaulet and gave a mocking laugh. ‘Watson, how well this story festers in the back of your cerebellum! While he is undoubtedly tall, our present visitor cannot be more than six feet one inch in height, whereas the King of Bohemia was hardly less than six feet six inches, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules. Clearly our visitor is acquainted with your chronicles. I suspect he has more on his mind than this masquerade if he has persisted in coming to our door in an April storm.’

While Holmes spoke, a short exchange was taking place between our startled landlady and the visitor. We fell back into our chairs by the fire.

Mrs. Hudson’s familiar knock was followed by the door flying open. The apparition strode in, the cloak secured at the neck with a cameo habille, the carved woman’s neck adorned by a tiny diamond necklace. To Mrs. Hudson’s discomfit, with a quick placement of a hand the stranger turned her quickly around, pressing the door shut behind her.

I sprang out of my chair.

‘Why, Holmes,’ I gasped, pointing towards our visitor in mock surprise, ‘I do declare it is none other than the Hereditary King of Bohemia who honours us once again.’

Our visitor tore off the mask, waving aside my offer of brandy. Beneath fair, wavy hair in perfect order and fine, high brows, another notable feature delineated his face: a majestic pair of mustachios, extravagant in their length and curl. He looked down at the still-seated Holmes through narrow eyes.

‘Not quite the King of Bohemia, Dr. Watson,’ our visitor returned. ‘No, not the dear Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, as I see our Mr. Holmes has already deduced,’ he continued, ‘or surely he would have rushed to greet an old client.’

The voice, though nasal, was decisive.

He continued, ‘Yet the matter is so delicate that like the King of Bohemia I dare not confide it to an agent without putting myself in the man’s power. I have come incognito from Sofia for the purpose of consulting you. I am Ferdinand, Prince Regnant of Bulgaria. I require your services. I require them immediately. It concerns a matter of the utmost discretion and importance.’

‘Bulgaria?’ I enquired.

‘Yes, Dr. Watson. Surely you have heard of Bulgaria, the tinderbox of Europe? A land of mystery, mosques and minarets, all the faces of mankind - Kurds, Druze, Jews, Ismailis - wonderfully mixed?’

He paused, staring at me quizzically.

I remained silent. He added, ‘Men in fezzes and baggy knickerbockers who carry old-fashioned firearms and curved knives stuck in their belts? My Capital Sofia throngs with stout Persian merchants, wild Turcomans, Parsees from Bombay and Hebrew rabbis by the dozen, even children of the Land of the Dragon. Your public must thirst to know of such strange and mountainous lands. Look how the English feast on such things:

and so on.’

He put a hand across his face, peering at me through his fingers. ‘Veiled women with enchanting eyes; men in jackets of crimson velvet embroidered with gold or silver, riding spirited Arab steeds whose hooves strike sparks on the kaldrmi. Bazaars the equal of Baghdad’s. Abracadabra! You will be able to regale your readers with adventures and discoveries as picturesque as the One Thousand And One Nights.’

I gestured at his attire. ‘But, I beg you, how were you able to - ?’

‘ - adopt the disguise of another Royal visitor of yours? My dear Dr. Watson, I do not just read your chronicles, I devour them like the bear fishing in a river’s rapids, sinking its teeth into a writhing salmon. I learn your stories by rote, word for word. They are issued as a text-book to the Bulgarian police-force. However, I assure you that on this occasion you will not be required to regain an unseemly picture of me and the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory, such as the photograph you refer to in A Scandal in Bohemia.’

Holmes half opened his lids and glanced across at our visitor. ‘You say you require our services - ?’ He broke off, reaching for his briar pipe.

Our strange visitor stretched beneath his cloak and withdrew a heavy chamois leather bag. He let it drop on the table.

‘This bag contains exactly three hundred pounds in sovereigns and seven hundred in notes,’ he said, ‘plus a few dozen Bulgarian gold 100 leva bearing my head - for your expenses in my country. Accept this as a mark of my esteem.’

He added, ‘You would not expect the Prince Regnant of Bulgaria to pay you any less than the King of Bohemia!’

I stared mesmerised at the bulky leather bag.

‘Your Royal Highness,’ I returned. ‘That is a very generous sum. We must assume the matter is of the highest importance.’

Our visitor seated himself on the sofa.

‘Important enough to bring a Prince out in such a gale,’ he answered.

Our visitor followed this with a backward glance at the door. He turned to Sherlock Holmes and murmured ‘Mr. Holmes, if I am to explain exactly why there is nothing of greater importance to the entire world than the commission I am about to proffer, I must presume I have your utmost assurance of confidentiality?’

Holmes reassured him with a ‘You may’; adding with a gesture in my direction, ‘Your Highness, I undertake nothing serious without my trusted comrade and biographer at my elbow.’

‘Importance to the entire world?’ I could not prevent myself asking.

The Prince’s forehead wrinkled at my incredulous response.

‘To the entire world,’ he repeated impatiently. ‘It concerns the loss of a centuries-old manuscript known as the Codex Zographensis, the most ancient and most sacred manuscript in the Old Bulgarian language. Since the news came that it has been taken from a hiding-place believed to be completely secure I have hardly had a wink of sleep.’

‘Let us hear more of this Codex Zographensis,’ Holmes broke in. ‘Why is its loss of such importance? Why would you come all the way from Sofia by way of Simpson’s Grand Cigar Divan to our quarters at this hour, and in the teeth of our famous weather?’

‘The Codex is an illuminated manuscript, a gospel-book more than a thousand years old,’ our guest related. ‘For many centuries it was believed lost or destroyed. Sixty years ago it was rediscovered at the Zograf Monastery on Mount Athos and found its way back to Bulgaria. From the moment of its return the Codex took on a mystical importance, a talisman of national destiny, like the Golden Throne of the Ashanti, or the Stone of Scone at the crowning of your British kings.’

Holmes had been listening with closed eyes to our visitor’s account, his legs stretched out in front of him. He opened his eyes.

‘Have you informed the Bulgarian police?’ he asked.

‘My dear Mr. Holmes, to inform the Bulgarian police must, in the shortest of runs, inform the world. This is what I particularly desire to avoid.’

My companion motioned towards the chamois leather bag.

‘You have told us why it is of such value to your country but as yet not the extreme urgency for its recovery.’

‘I can only hint at the reason,’ came the terse response.

‘A hint will suffice for now.’

‘It concerns my eldest son Boris.’

‘Of what age?’ Holmes probed.

‘He is six.’

‘Some more facts, please. Do we deduce there is some nationalistic or religious ceremony you wish your son to undergo which requires the presence of this manuscript?’

The Prince inclined his head.

‘I repeat, Mr. Holmes, it is absolutely vital the Codex is found and returned to the nation. Otherwise - ’ His voice fell away.

‘Your Royal Highness,’ I intervened, ‘if, as you say, you are acquainted with my chronicles you will know Sherlock Holmes - with the rare exception - is more intimately concerned with matters of murder, far removed from international politics.’

‘You need only concern yourselves with the recovery of the manuscript, a simple theft,’ came the reply. ‘You may leave the politics to me.’

He rose to his feet and stood looking down at us. In a quite agitated manner, he said, ‘Gentlemen, time is of the very essence. My country is surrounded by a plethora of warring nationalities and terrorist groups - Young Czechs, Italian Irridentisti, pan-Slavs, the andartai from Greece, the chetnitsi from Serbia. Worst of all, the Russian bear growls outside the cave, waiting to swallow me up. The fate of millions may depend on the swift recovery of this national treasure.’

My comrade asked, ‘The Tsar of Russia, you suspect he is behind this theft?’

For a moment our visitor wore a bitter look.

‘I see the Tsar behind everything,’ he responded fiercely, ‘as will you, I am sure. He wreaks his vengeance with the atrocity of the barbarian. The wretch has allocated a million francs for my assassination. Russian gold and Russian explosives are deployed against me everywhere. In his lair far away, barricaded by ice and eternal snow, guarded by four million soldiers who only ask to die for him, what has that monstrous sturgeon to fear?’

‘You think, sir, that unless this manuscript is recovered there will be war?’ I asked, even now unable to hide my incredulity.

‘When I say the fate of millions, Dr. Watson,’ the Prince replied, anger in his voice, ‘I do not mean simply the fate of a few peasants and a Balkan Prince. I mean entire civilisations and whole empires.’

He went on, ‘Thomas Cook’s on Regent Street will make all your arrangements for a swift departure. Once you get to Paris, my private carriages on the Orient Express will be at your disposal.’

Our visitor started towards the door.

‘Find your way to the Gare de Strasbourg by Friday evening, I beg of you,’ he continued. ‘Your tickets will be marked Sirkeci. That is the terminal by the Golden Horn. I request you switch to a Second Class carriage at Marchegg. There are eyes everywhere. Quit the train early, at Orşova on the Danube. Three hours after your arrival at Orşova a steamer, the Orient, of the Austrian Danube steamship company will dock. Board her. She will take you across the river to Svishtov. You will have arrived in my country. A highlight of your stay will be the International Sherlock Holmes Competition.’

The Prince Regnant reached the door. ‘Mr. Holmes, if you are to use your powers, it is essential you are taken to the scene of this abominable crime the moment you arrive. Even considering the case of the Bruce-Partington Plans, you will never have had so great a chance of serving your country.’

‘And the place where the Codex was concealed?’ I asked, glancing across at a shelf of Baedekers.

Our visitor’s eyes widened. He fell backwards in an exaggerated fashion, hands up. In a hushed tone he said, ‘Dr. Watson, I must beg your indulgence. I know that landladies are sometimes curious as to their master’s affairs. Can you guarantee that Mrs. Hudson is so rich she would refuse to divulge such information in the face of 500 grams of virgin Russian gold?’

At our silence he went on, ‘Of course you cannot! May I merely say it is a day or two’s journey from Sofia? I shall take you there myself. We shall slip away from my Palace unnoticed.’

Holmes had remained silent for some few minutes, his brows knitted and his eyes fixed upon the fire. At his quiet nod I stood up and went to our visitor, extending my hand. ‘Your Royal Highness, you may leave everything to us. The very least we can guarantee is our best effort in the recovery of such a national treasure.’

I held the door open. ‘One last question,’ I continued. ‘I have never heard of the International Sherlock Holmes Competition. How long has it been a tradition in your country?’

‘This will be the first,’ our visitor replied. ‘I have just invented it. We Balkan Princes can do that sort of thing.’

Concerned, I enquired, ‘But surely the whole point of our investigation will be our anonymity?’

‘Dr. Watson, would you prefer to come to my country disguised as Sufist missionaries? Better my enemies can’t see the wood from the trees. If there is a chance sighting of Mr. Holmes, they will not know if it really is the world’s greatest deductive reasoner, the most energetic agent in Europe, or one of a hundred personators putting themselves forward for a considerable prize.’

He pointed to the outside world where dawn was about to break.

‘Now, gentlemen, like the vampires which teem in my country, I must leave you lest your sunlight strikes me and Ego mortuus sum.’

With a further sweep of the blue cloak and a ring-bedizened hand, our visitor was gone, his exit as theatrical as his entry. Behind him lingered the faint aroma of Astrakhan lamb. We moved to our posts by the window to observe his departure down Baker Street in the spring dawn light. A single cab splashed its way past him from the Oxford Street end. A street-organ grinder loosened up for the morning rush with ‘Soldiers of the Queen’ and the swing-step of ‘The British Grenadiers’.

Holmes turned away from the window with a wry expression. ‘Well, Watson, what do you make of it all? Is my little practice degenerating into an agency for recovering ancient superstitious scribbles and giving advice to governesses?’

For a moment I feared he would back away. ‘Holmes,’ I replied quickly, ‘I remind you that the affair of the blue carbuncle and The Adventure of the Copper Beeches first appeared to be a mere whim yet developed into serious investigations.’

Holmes is not a man to lose time in idle preparations. In his more intense moments he will permit himself no food. He once confided that his principal diet before we entered Mrs. Hudson’s establishment was bread, potted meat and bacon cooked over a gas-ring. Before breakfast-time on the morning of our departure for Paris and the Gare de Strasbourg he took his hat and started off down the street.

With no intention of falling into this habit, I rang the bell for Mrs. Hudson and urged her to bring me one of her best breakfasts. I settled down to partake when my comrade’s voice commanding our landlady to order a cab came up the stairway. He entered the chamber and glanced at my plate. ‘Watson, you must abandon our virtuous landlady’s excellent devilled kidneys and kedgeree. We have an assignation with brother Mycroft at No. 10 Downing Street. Pack a box as quickly as you can. We must depart within the half-hour if we are to continue onward to catch the boat-train to France.’

I sprang to my feet.

‘Why does Mycroft wish to see us?’ I asked, ‘and why at No. 10? Why not the Diogenes Club or his home in Pall Mall?’

‘Mycroft is a valued member of the Prime Minister’s Kitchen Cabinet and the European Secretary’s most valuable confidante. We are to take a small gift for our Balkan prince together with a confidential message conveying our Government’s high regards. I ask you, Watson, are you at all averse to this trip? Would you like to give it a miss?

‘Not for worlds, Holmes!’

‘Excellent!’ came the reply.

I started towards my dressing-room. Unsure whether our investigation would stretch into the hot Balkan summer I continued on to the attic in search of tropical wear. I uncovered a set of clothing obtained from Gieves of Old Bond Street before I embarked for India - a now-elderly pig-sticking pith helmet with spine-pad, duck clothes and two palm beach suits. I returned the pith helmet to its tin topee case, the clothing to the Pukka wardrobe trunk, retaining a tropical suit in the form of tussore. When the original brownish colour of the strong coarse Indian silk turned to yellow it became the subject of considerable amusement at the Punjab Club, obliging me to stop wearing it. I decided it might look quite subdued in the Balkans among the Kurds, Druze, Jews, and Ismailis.

My comrade called up, ‘Watson, along with your tooth-brush and a half-pound box of honeydew tobacco, perhaps you would be good enough to bring those forceps you used in Kandahar to extract bullets from the living flesh. Mycroft worries that any shot intended for the Prince may well hit his travelling companions instead.’