by Tim Symonds
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.
Chapter XX
IN WHICH THE SWORD STICK IS TO PUT TO USE
THE Prince responded quickly to our request for a photographic session with Colonel Kalchoff. We were to return to the Palace at sun-up on the morrow with the bellows camera. Everything would be ready. Two Palace staff would meet us at the Red Staircase to carry the heavy photographic equipment to a suitable studio.
This time we were led down a long stone-flagged passage hung with orange and lemon-coloured tapestries to a small out-of-the-way monk-like cell at the back of the building, half-hidden by rhododendrons and creepers. The walls were busy with aquarelles of flowers and inset with fragments of Roman bas-reliefs. Above a profusion of bouquets of dried flowers in vases, there hung a large picture, clearly recently painted: a view of the Bosphorus, the Golden Horn, Saint Sophia, and the great wall of Constantinople. Floating in the glow of an apocalyptic sky was a splendid horseman, Ferdinand.
More prosaically dressed in a smock, the real Ferdinand stood at an easel by the window. He had surrounded himself with varnishing pots scattered across a beautiful Aubusson rug, a paint-brush in one hand, the Marquess of Salisbury’s sword stick in the other. At our entry he stabbed the brush into a jar of cleaning fluid and turned to greet us. As he did so the doors behind us were flung open. Colonel Kalchoff strode in, dressed in the precise attire he had worn as Sherlock Holmes No. V, the fine mustachios gleaming, the Egyptian-blue cloak and its silk lining ablaze with colour. Words of greeting began to cross his lips.
‘Konstantin,’ the Prince interrupted in a business-like manner, ‘while Dr. Watson is setting up the camera, I believe there is the small matter Mr. Holmes wishes to discuss with you.’
The Prince’s tone turned to one of shocked indignation. ‘An assassination - is that not so, Mr. Holmes?’
‘I don’t see - ’ Kalchoff began, a chill of fear springing to his eyes.
My companion stepped forward, his face dark. He stood in front of the War Minister with that quick, fierce gleam of his deep-set eyes before which many a criminal had cowered. He held up the wedding photograph.
‘Colonel,’ Holmes ordered, ‘may I ask you to examine Captain Barrington’s fine mustachios in this photograph?’
A deep silence ensued.
‘But I see you do not need to examine them,’ my comrade continued coldly. ‘You are fully aware they are the very ones you are wearing.’
Without taking his eyes from the War Minister, Holmes addressed the Prince. ‘Your Highness, they are identical in the minutest degree to this wedding photograph and to the Sargent painting which you commissioned a year later, so identical it is impossible they are not the same false pair. The only way the War Minister could have obtained them is straight from the cheeks of the young woman he murdered in the forest the morning of the Sherlock Holmes competition in the belief he was killing Captain Barrington.’
My companion went on in a harsh voice, ‘In a desperate effort to save herself, the young woman pressed through the powerful hands gripping her throat and ripped the mustachios from her cheeks. By exposing her sex she hoped her killer would have mercy on her, but to no avail. The Colonel chose not to spare her life for fear of arrest and disgrace.’
With a violent movement Kalchoff swung away from Holmes. He darted a fearsome look at his master, his eyes as savage as a cornered wild beast.
In German he began, ‘Ferdinand, you have allowed me to be tricked! Do they know I did it with your - ’
Although Colonel Kalchoff was to live for another seven minutes these were to be the last words he ever spoke.
The Prince’s hand swung up. ‘Konstantin, my dearest friend,’ he returned in English, slipping the blade of the sword stick from its sheath, ‘I have yet to show you the gift Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson brought from the Prime Minister of England!’
As he uttered the word ‘England’, with the precision of a matador delivering the estocada, the Prince thrust the blade deep into Kalchoff’s throat. The Minister’s head jerked back. A terrible convulsion passed over his face. He gagged violently. One hand came up to drag at the sword. Blood sprang from almost-severed fingers, spattering the flame-coloured lining of the cloak. His mouth burst open like a laughing skull, spurting out a further torrent of blood. His good hand dropped to fumble beneath the cloak.
To my amazement, rather than stepping forward to save the hapless Minister, Holmes brought his hunting crop hard down on the man’s lowered hand. A half-cocked Apache pinfire cartridge revolver concealed beneath the cloak clattered to the floor. With no barrel, a set of foldover brass knuckles for a handgrip, and a folding knife mounted right underneath the revolver drum for use as a stabbing weapon, the Apache is probably the nastiest piece of work you can put in your pocket. Indisputably it contained the folding knife which had drained the murdered woman of her life.
The Prince was observing me with a slight smile. He said, ‘Doctor, you’re not looking quite yourself. You seem to be taken aback. You were a little tardy in drawing your service revolver. Your comrade may just have saved all our lives. Konstantin is the finest proponent in all Europe with that pistol, not disregarding even the Parisian underworld.’
‘But your Royal Highness, you can’t just - ’ I castigated, waving towards his dying victim.
The War Minister was staggering backwards towards the door, staring in horror from the Prince to Holmes and me and back to the Prince. The once-glittering black eyes were losing their fire. Death moved across his face.
Ferdinand retorted, ‘Oh but my dear Doctor, I venture to think I can. These are the Balkans. I am a Balkan Prince.’
He turned towards the dying man.
I have it word for word in my note-book that he addressed him as follows: ‘Don’t worry, Konstantin, my old friend, you shall have a state funeral. I shall personally lay a golden wreath at your grave, as I did at Tsar Alexander’s. The same wreath in fact. I retrieved it for occasions like this.’
For a further few long-drawn-out seconds, Kalchoff’s legs emulated a grisly Portuguese two-steps waltz. Then he collapsed. Coolly the Prince stepped towards him and pressed a hand on his heart. Assured he was dead, with one palm he held the corpse’s face down while with the other hand he withdrew the blade and ran it across his smock. He turned to look up at me.
‘Dr. Watson, it seems you are no longer keen to take my Minister’s photograph?’
‘Indeed not,’ I exploded.
‘You appear horrified a monarch should stoop to methods unworthy of the head of a gang of thieves. I ask you to remember the destiny of Europe rests on my shoulders. Were I afforded a greater amount of freedom and fewer grave responsibilities I might have let him live.’ He stood up. ‘It’s a good idea to wear a painter’s smock if you have to stick a sword in someone. Mr. Holmes, do thank the Prime Minister for his gift. Tell him I have already made excellent use of it.’
He turned again to the body and examined the pockets, drawing out the Black Pearl of the Borgias. He held it up to the light. ‘Well I never!’ he exclaimed with an ironic look. ‘Then it’s true. The Borgia pearl does bring bad luck to its owner. I must decide who shall have it next.’
Still badly shaken, I stammered, ‘But I thought the Minister was among your greatest supporters? In our presence you described him to his face as your most loyal and constant friend and ally.’
‘Sovereigns have peculiar responsibilities,’ Ferdinand replied. ‘I learnt at my dear mother’s knee the advice offered to the Hapsburg Emperor Franz Joseph by his statesman Prince Felix von und zu Schwartzenberg.’
‘Which was?’ I asked.
‘No autocrat can afford to be either grateful or humane. Certainly I know my action would be considered very shocking in one’s private affairs, but it is quite something else i
n matters of State. The moment the interests of my principality become involved I have to recollect that I am the Prince Regnant of Bulgaria.’
He clapped his hands. A small gaggle of servants ran in. In a silence broken into solely by the sound of the deceased’s scraping heels, the three of us stood staring at Kalchoff’s body as they pulled him away, like mules dragging out a slain bull.
***
The following morning a copy of the Sofia English-language newspaper was pushed under our door. Holmes picked it up. I left my chair and studied it over his shoulder. Dramatic black strips outlined the front page.
The headline blared: A FURTHER ATTEMPT TO ASSASSINATE OUR BELOVED RULER FOILED. TRAGIC DEATH OF WAR MINISTER.
The article continued: ‘Yesterday, in the heart of the Palace, in the former boudoir of our dearest departed Princess Marie-Louise, a vile attempt was made on the life of our beloved Prince Ferdinand of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha by a Ruthenian assassin armed with a Russian needle-gun. It took place while the Knyaz and War Minister Kalchoff were saying goodbye to the famous English consulting detective Sherlock Holmes and his diarist Dr. Watson. Realising at once the danger to the Prince, the faithful Minister threw himself at the attacker. For his bravery he suffered a mortal wound through the throat. The would-be assassin fled and has so far eluded capture. The Knyaz considers it his duty to render to the eminent deceased those honours which his services have merited: a national funeral.’
Holmes lowered the newspaper. With complete disregard to the dramatic reporting, he said, ‘The note brought to Captain Barrington by the stable-boy arranged a rendezvous in a forest glade near an obrok, ostensibly to engage with the vampire rumoured to have moved into the region from Istria, hence Captain Barrington insisting he would be back before sun-up the next day.’