by David Marcum
“That sounds serious,” I interjected. For although nothing can shake the British Army’s loyalty to King and Country, I know from my Afghan experience how quickly one bad apple in a regimental mess can sour the whole barrel.
“But it is not the worst,” Holmes went on gravely. “The Queen is barren, Doctor, which equates to mortal sin in a superstitious Balkan culture. Draga admits to Miss Adler that she compounded the problem by claiming she was pregnant and then failing to produce an heir. Rumours have spread that she is pressuring the King to name her brother as successor. In April, there were riots in the streets of Belgrade. A poisoner was caught inside the palace kitchen by the royal cook.[5] Each day, the Queen awakens not knowing whether, before nightfall, she and the King will be overthrown and murdered. He - with more courage than good sense - refuses to take the danger seriously. Draga is not merely frightened, Watson. She is terrified.”
“What help does she expect from Irene Adler? And why has Miss Adler written to you?”
“She has told the Queen a little - only a little - of our friendship and my contacts in the British government. Her husband Vukčić, (who has sources of his own in Serbia,) has acquired a list of officers who are conspiring to overthrow the dynasty. Miss Adler implores me, on behalf of Draga, to go to Belgrade and lay this evidence before King Alexander. A warning delivered under British auspices, however unofficially, may compel him to see reason. Naturally, I must obtain the government’s permission first.”
“It would appear, then, that our next step is to visit Brother Mycroft.”
“Bravo, Watson! As always, the obvious course appears with blinding clarity before you. Mycroft is expecting us in Whitehall at half-past two. Perhaps a bite at Simpson’s first would not be unwelcome.”
By 1903, I was aware that Holmes’s elder brother often was the British government. Although officially no more than a senior clerk, Mycroft had long been indispensable to ministers for his remarkable ability to absorb, classify, and disseminate information acquired from many sources. His conclusions frequently decided policy on matters of international importance. That afternoon, he sat behind a desk piled high with documents, greyer and stouter than when I had last seen him, reading through the letter his brother had just summarized at length.
“I must admit, Sherlock, that Madame Vukčić’s account - supplemented, as she says, by her husband’s contacts in Serbia - agrees in every particular with the reports my own informants have provided. This plot to overthrow Alexander Obrenović is common gossip in the coffee-houses of Belgrade. There is no doubt the King and Queen are in considerable danger.”
“You agree that a warning could be efficacious?”
“Possibly,” ruminated Mycroft, “very possibly. We can do nothing officially, of course. The question, Sherlock, is whether such an act is really in our interest.”
“Surely,” I expostulated, “His Majesty’s government cannot sit idly by and allow the royal couple to be murdered!”
“The King’s abdication should preserve them. I understand your indignation, Doctor, but inaction may truly be the wiser course. These Obrenović’s have never been very satisfactory. Alexander’s political quarrels, and his vacillation between Austria and Russia, have destabilized not only Serbia but the entire Balkan Peninsula. It is likely that the conspirators will try to bring in Peter Karadjordjević, the descendant of ‘Black George’ who won Serbia its freedom from the Turks. He is known to be an altogether sounder man.”
“Oh, come now, Mycroft,” scoffed Sherlock Holmes. “That seems a bit cold-blooded, even for my taste. Now, what do you intend to do?”
“Well,” his older brother grumbled, “we can hardly send a gunboat down the Danube to protect the palace. I suppose allowing you to deliver Vukčić’s list would give His Majesty fair warning. The Serbs seem bound to have a bloodbath either way.”
“Should we not urge the King to abdicate,” I suggested, “as his father did? Or to banish poor Queen Draga, who is evidently the cause of all the trouble?”
“A poor return for her appeal, Watson,” my friend murmured, “and for Irene Adler’s.”
“Admittedly, Holmes. Nevertheless,” I added, pointing to the map behind us, “Austria-Hungary is just across the river from Belgrade. They could be over the frontier within an hour.”
“An excellent point, Doctor,” conceded Mycroft, “geographically speaking. Draga Mašin may not be as reluctant to depart as we suppose. In 1900, Alexander’s ministers had persuaded her to flee across the Danube before the King could marry her, but he intervened in time. However foolhardy he may be, Alexander seems made of stronger mettle than King Milan. He may fight to save his queen and throne, if we arm him with a list of traitors.”
“Miss Adler’s husband can assist us there,” Holmes put in impatiently. “How long will you require to complete your arrangements?”
“These things do take time, Sherlock! The Cabinet must be consulted. A week, perhaps, assuming the Prime Minister proves himself as mad as I. Belgrade is quite accessible by rail, but you will need to stop in Montenegro on the way. That is no easy journey.”
Until Mycroft spoke, I had not fully realized that soon I would be travelling to Serbia. It was a shock to discover that the idea held no appeal for me at all. To leave my new family and go traipsing off with Holmes into the wildest corner in all Europe, on a secret diplomatic mission that might last for weeks and prove dangerous as well as difficult - it was the last thing I wanted at that moment in my life. Having never experienced such a reaction during my previous marriages, I was at a loss to understand my own emotions. Had I grown so old and tired that the prospect of adventure daunted me? Whatever my responsibility to my wife and stepchildren, had I not also a responsibility to Sherlock Holmes? Was I simply to wish my old friend well and lay aside our years of partnership?
In the end, of course, I went with Holmes to Belgrade. Withdrawing at that stage would have meant deserting not only him but Irene Adler, Mycroft and the Cabinet, and Their Majesties of Serbia. Nevertheless, before leaving I made a promise to myself - and confirmed it to my tearful, angry wife - that this would be the last extended journey I would make with Sherlock Holmes. I did not agree to give up either him or our detective work entirely, for both were still important in my life. Henceforth, however, I resolved that my family would come first. Little did I know, when we departed England, how easy it would be to keep that promise.
Inevitably, we were delayed in leaving London. The Cabinet, divided by a tariff policy dispute, proved hard to assemble, and harder to convince that the affairs of a small Balkan kingdom were worthy of their time. While I passed uneasy days in Queen Anne Street, Holmes met again with Mycroft to receive the Prime Minister’s instructions. As my friend remarked, they seemed designed less to ensure our success than to shield the government from blame for failure.
“Upon arriving in Cetinje,” Mycroft had informed his brother, “you are to negotiate only with Count Vukčić, avoiding any communication with Prince Nicholas or the Montenegrin court. I shall leave it to you and Vukčić to decide how best to contact Alexander. It would be far, far better, Sherlock, for Queen Draga to leave Serbia. Her departure might in itself restore stability, but the young King is unlikely to agree. Remember that at no time are you to contact or involve the British ministers in Cetinje and Belgrade. I shall keep both men informed, of course, but we cannot be seen as having any part whatever in this venture. Indeed, the longer I consider, the less I believe that we have anything to gain, aside from the obvious humanitarian objective.”
Undeterred by this vote of meagre confidence, Holmes and I left London on the second day of June. We crossed the Channel to Calais and caught the fabled “Orient Express”, steaming across northern France in the small hours of the night. The next day brought splendid vistas of the Bavarian Alps, recalling our ill-fated Swiss journey of twelve years before. Holmes, as
always, was indifferent to scenery, chafing at our rate of progress as the engine laboured slowly up the mountain slopes. After a night in Vienna, we headed south toward the Illyrian coast, but a landslip in the Carniolan mining district halted our express and forced us to spend the night in Laibach. Our departure from Fiume, near the head of the Adriatic, was postponed until the fifth.
“It is infamous, Watson!” cried Sherlock Holmes. He had just learned that our Lloyd’s steamship would not reach Cattaro (its nearest approach to the Montenegrin capital) before the following evening, further delaying our arrival at Count Vukčić’s villa. “Nine days gone since I received Irene Adler’s letter, and we are still not even to Cetinje, much less Belgrade!”
“Cheer up, old man,” I consoled him, brandishing my Baedeker.[6] “It says here that Montenegro and Serbia still use the Julian calendar, so upon arriving we gain thirteen days!”[7]
“Fie, Doctor!” snorted Holmes. “Must I always be subjected to these pawky sallies?” Nonetheless, he smiled, and we remained on deck for several hours, while our vessel navigated skilfully among the reefs and islands strewn along that rocky coast. The sun blazed down upon us from a cloudless sky; the Adriatic’s waters roiled beneath the whitewashed walls of cities that “from time immemorial” (as my guide-book put it) had been way stations along “the highway of traffic between East and West”. For all the grief and horror that were soon to come, I recall that afternoon on the Pannonia[8] as one of the most peaceful I have ever spent with Sherlock Holmes.
The next day, my friend remained inside our cabin, researching the voluminous notes that Mycroft had provided him on Serbia and Montenegro. We entered the Bay of Cattaro just at sunset, with the rugged peaks of the “Black Mountain” looming high above its broad expanse. Taking a room in the town’s least objectionable hotel, we found ourselves sharing it with three swarthy Montenegrins. They looked remarkably like brigands, but our innkeeper had assured us that visitors to Cattaro’s fair were obliged to leave their weapons at the border. In the event, our fellow lodgers behaved with more decorum - save for snoring - than might have been encountered at an English country fair. We awoke to find they had departed well before us.
To my relief, Holmes was able to hire an open, three-horse carriage, saving us a day-long walk. As we left Dalmatia, each turning of our steep ascent afforded a more splendid view of the Bocche di Cattaro, its waters shadowed by the mountains from the rising sun. I remarked to my companion that we had seen nothing so beautiful since the Reichenbach Falls.
“Let us hope, Watson,” he snapped curtly, “that our present journey has a happier end.”
Thus rebuked, I abandoned my attempts at conversation, and we rode in silence for some miles. After a halt at the border-post to reclaim our driver’s pistol, our path climbed steadily from pine-scented forest into barren hills. Soon we overtook parties of returning fair-goers. On each occasion, they politely stepped aside - even to the brink of a precipice - to let our carriage pass. The Montenegrin men were uniformly tall and rawboned, their white, full-skirted coats festooned with weapons. The younger women looked quite lovely in close-fitting black boleros and white robes, prompting Holmes to offer me a quizzical (or perhaps apologetic) smile.
In mid-afternoon, we reached a high pass in the mountains, followed by a long and serpentine descent, until the red-roofed houses of Cetinje appeared below us in a cultivated valley. We arrived at dusk, five days and nine hours after leaving London.
Count Vukčić’s estate lay just outside the capital, on an open rise of land reclaimed from the pine forest. Though medieval in origin, the house was a plain-fronted, unassuming dwelling of one storey,[9] surrounded by a low stone wall. Such lack of ostentation was evidently typical in Montenegro. Even the Prince’s residence, which we had passed on our way through Cetinje, had the austerity of a hospital or orphanage, rather than a royal palace.
After a dinner of stewed lamb, smoked fish, and other delicacies, Holmes and I had fully recovered from the rigours of the day. We relaxed in the small but elegant dining room, partaking of a dry red wine called Vranac, and a creamy cheese that was too salty for my taste. Earlier, we had met the two young people currently in residence: The Count’s young son by his first marriage, Marko[10], and Miss Adler’s daughter (by Godfrey Norton), who at the age of twelve already showed signs of inheriting her mother’s beauty.[11]
With his large frame and iron-grey hair and mustache, Count Vukčić could have passed for a gaunter brother of Prince Nicholas. However, he possessed an air of real nobility, unlike the sly demeanour apparent in that monarch’s portraits. Although well aware of his wife’s past relationship with Sherlock Holmes, the Count had welcomed us without constraint, showing the unstinting hospitality for which his country is renowned. After dinner, as we sipped our wine and lit up fine cigars, he seemed inclined to lecture. Miss Adler, who had not withdrawn, smiled indulgently as though used to hearing him.
“When Kossovo was lost,”[12] intoned our host, “the Serbian warriors who took refuge in these mountains split into tribes - each with its own chief, like your country’s Scottish clans - and carried on their fight against the Turks. They paid the price of blood to keep their freedom! We Montenegrins had been free for centuries when the great ‘Black George’ was still a bandit and Miloš Obrenović paid tribute to the Porte. In the battles of my prime, our own Prince Nicholas drove the Sultan’s armies from our coast, while young Milan Obrenović cowered in his war-camp with the gypsy girls. Then, after our Russian brothers had come to Serbia’s defence, Milan sold his country to the Emperor of Austria - who stole Bosnia and Herzegovina from us - and crowned himself a king!”
“Indeed,” sighed Irene Adler, “he was a man of many faults. But a few virtues.”[13]
If her husband noticed this gentle interruption, it barely broke his stride. “As for Peter Karadjordjević, who skulks in Switzerland - has he breathed his homeland’s air since boyhood? No!”[14] Count Vukčić cast his eyes around the table, as though inviting us to share his indignation. “Who are these Karadjordjević’s and Obrenović’s to think that they should rule the Serbs?”
Sherlock Holmes had endured this discourse with more patience than was usually his wont. “But is it not true, Your Excellency,” he now queried, “that your master married his daughter to Peter Karadjordjević? That was a princely gift indeed to a man he did not consider worthy of a throne.” It was apparent that my friend had not neglected Mycroft’s notes. “What changed his mind about his son-in-law?”
“Alas, Mr. Holmes,” replied Vukčić, “they fell out over money.” He had the grace to look a little crestfallen. “If our Prince has one besetting sin, it is his greed. He would steal milk from a baby at its mother’s breast. But we forgive him this iniquity, for in his day he was a mighty warrior. I have also heard it said,” he muttered absently, “that Karadjordjević beat Nicholas too often at the chessboard.”[15]
“Surely, that is unforgivable,” sneered Holmes. “Now, let us discuss this list of Serbian officers supposedly implicated in the plot to murder Alexander.” He waved the document our host had handed him before the meal. “I take it they are Karadjordjević supporters?”
“That is the information we received,” Count Vukčić answered coolly, “though I dislike your use of the word ‘supposedly.’” The room’s atmosphere had darkened, and Miss Adler and I exchanged a nervous glance. “More than a hundred such officers have been identified, including a member of the General Staff.[16] Please explain what you infer by your enquiry.”
“My point is this: Whatever the outcome of this so-called conspiracy, one of the rival houses to the House of Petrović-Njegoš - that is, your master’s house - will be discredited or eliminated altogether. Prince Nicholas’s claim to the throne of Serbia, should he wish to press it, will be immeasurably strengthened. Does that hypothesis misstate the facts in any way?”
“Let us say it state
s them in the most provocative way possible.” Our host rose from his chair and glared sternly at my friend. “Mr. Holmes, I do not relish having my motives, and those of my Prince, impugned at my own table by the agent of a foreign government - even one who comes here at the invitation of my wife!”
His wife and I looked on in consternation, for more stood between them now than the mere throne of Serbia. The Montenegrin Serdar[17] held his adversary’s gaze without relenting, and finally it was Holmes who dropped his eyes.
“I apologize, Count Vukčić,” he said reluctantly. “I intended no personal affront to you, or to your master. As you have said, I am here to represent the interests of my government, so I must endeavour to obtain the clearest understanding possible of the situation that exists.”
“Then let me present it to you as clearly as I can.” The Count was not entirely mollified, but he resumed his seat. “To an extent, Mr. Holmes,” he sighed, “I must admit you are correct. My Prince indeed covets the Serbian throne, but the circumstances are not quite what you imagine.”
“Please enlighten me.”
“Very well. In 1896, after the boy-king Alexander had dismissed his regents, Prince Nicholas paid a visit to Belgrade. They agreed that if the King (who is the last of his line) did not produce an heir, the Serbian crown would pass to the House of Petrović-Njegoš. At the time, such an outcome seemed unlikely, but Nicholas wisely chose a lady from a minor Obrenović line to wed his second son, Prince Mirko. Then, to the world’s amazement, Alexander married Draga Mašin. Since her plan to place her sister’s baby in the royal cradle failed, all Serbia knows they will be childless. Prince Nicholas will hold the last Obrenović to his promise. If our list of traitors enables him to foil this foul intrigue, the King must proclaim Prince Mirko as his heir.[18]