“I am staying at the castle,” I told her, speaking slowly since her English seemed a bit piecemeal. “I heard of your, er, ghost? In the cemetery.”
“Pah,” she said, waving the idea away with her cigarette.
“Not a ghost, then? Or a, what do you call them—strigoi?”
“Was some stupid boy, playing big for his friends.”
“Vera, I saw wooden stakes on the shelf inside your house.”
She looked embarrassed. “My father. So old fashion. This 1925—day of telephones, motorcar. Even in Bran, two people have fridgerator, make ice in summer. In Bran! No place for strigoi, vampire, wheetch.”
“But it sounded frightening.”
“Oh, yais, I frightened then. Leetle bit. Nighttime, yes? Dark, quiet, lone…lonesome? Lonely?”
“Either one.”
“All alone. I walk home, thinking thoughts and a voice, little voice, whus…whus?”
“Whisper.”
“Yes, whisper.” She dropped her own voice in imitation, a scratchy sound in the air. “ ‘You, Vera,’ it say. ‘Come talk me.’ Not in English, you understand? He say, ‘Come talk me’ and I say, ‘Who that?’ and he say Andrei. Lots of Andreis, right? So I stay out on road, well away from bushes and wall, and say, ‘Andrei who?’ and he say—idiot boy—‘Andrei who die in Fagaraș.’ Big battle there, yes? Nineteen six.”
“Sixteen,” I corrected. “Nineteen sixteen.”
“Yes, thank you. Big battle, many die, wounded walking through Bran even, I remember. Nine years old, I was, but remember well. Too well.”
“I understand that you saw that same…ghost earlier this year, too?”
“That was why boys tease me now about Andrei, because of earlier story.”
“Tell me about the earlier time.”
“It was almost night then. I was new in castle, everything there seem strange, you know? I walk across courtyard and look up and see man looking down at me. Make me…surprise? Fear?”
“Er, startled?”
“Yes, it startled me. Because he look like a boy I knew long ago, before the War. He became soldier and died. Funeral and everything, I remember. Anyway, he looked down, saw me, goes away fast. So I go ask footman if a worker was in, someone with raggedy shirt and needing haircut. He said no, so we went and looked through all the rooms, and no boy. Especially no Andrei Costea. They tease me a little, Vera is seeing ghosts, boy walking through walls.”
“When was that?”
“Februarie? No—Martie.”
“March. Was the Queen here yet?”
“No, just getting things ready for her.”
“How did you know Andrei?”
“He was a friend of my sister, Magda. Older sister.”
“Just a friend, or a boyfriend?”
“Hah—Andrei, boyfriend of Magda Dumitru? No bloody likely.”
I was surprised—both by the colloquial oath and the emphasis behind it. “Why?”
“My sister, she wild. Little bit—not bad girl, you know? Just, she like her fun. City girl, yes? Now in Bucharest, works in office, makes good money, says I need to come, we can go dancing, people think we twins sisters. But Andrei, he…” She tried out a couple of words in Roumanian before venturing back into English. “He simple, yes? Village boy—good boy, nice boy, but simple. Not smart.”
“Do you mean he just wasn’t very bright, or was his brain damaged in some way?” It took us a few synonyms to work out the concept of damaged, but in the end, she shook her head.
“Could be, ‘dahmaged.’ But if so, was early. He was always like that, when I knew him. Strong, simple, nice boy. Handsome. Terrible father—used to hit mother, even the boys, too. Father went away at last, just before War started, and never came back. Everyone glad. Except the mother, she only lived two years more, then died, too. First year of War. So maybe yes, father hit Andrei when he was small and made his brain go scrumpled, I don’t know. But Andrei, he adore my sister Magda. He not really understand that he was too young for her—only two, three years, but that age, it matters, yes? But she like him, let him follow her around. Like pet, you know? Like Princess Ileana little white dog, feed bits, tease a little, give pats.”
“He doesn’t sound like someone who would enlist in the army.”
“Big, strong, stupid? Sound just like.”
I laughed, and admitted that she was right.
“But no,” she said. “I not telling this right. I liked Andrei. I was child, of course, too young for him, but he was always sweet to me. Andrei not…not clever, but not stupid like—numbskull? Is numbskull word?”
“It is indeed.”
“He good with machines, okay with reading, shy with most girls except for Magda, Andrei just—dreamy. That is him: dreamy.”
“And dead.”
“We cried at his funeral,” she said, as simple and as heartfelt an epitaph as any young man could ask.
I thought over what she had told me, and wondered at one detail. “Your sister Magda, she said you could go dancing like twin sisters. You look alike?”
“Oh yes—nine years different but same tall, same hair, same…well,” she looked down at her chest and gave a little moue. “Mostly same.”
“And when you went past the graveyard the other night, the voice called to you. Did he actually use your name?” She’d said the voice did, although the other two versions I’d been given left that detail out.
But she nodded vigorously. “Yes. ‘Vera,’ he say. ‘Come here.’ As if I some child walking up to strange bull in field.”
“Can you show me exactly where this was?”
She scraped off the last burning end of her cigarette and dropped it into a pocket, marching me down the road until we were standing outside of the graveyard.
She looked up and down a few times, adjusted her position, and said, “I here. I was here, in road, like this. And whusper comes from back there, Buna seara, Vera.”
“And after he said he was Andrei who died in the War, you turned and ran home.”
“I throw rock at him. Then I walk home. Little fast, maybe, but not run. Baieti prosti—I not run from those type boy.”
“Well, thank you for explaining. It’s all clearer now.” Which was a lie, because I did not understand the situation any better than I had an hour before—but I did know more details, which can be nearly as good. I reached in my pocket for some Roumanian lei, then hesitated. Would she be pleased, or offended? “Vera, do you have a…a savings fund, maybe for a trip to Bucharest to see your sister? Can I give you a few lei to add to it, by way of thanks for your time?”
She demurred—it had been her pleasure to talk to me, after being locked inside with her mother all day—but after a time, when I made it clear this was merely thanks and not payment, she accepted, tucking the bills casually into her cigarette pocket.
But when I looked back, I saw her bent over the bills, looking closely at the denominations. I had probably overpaid her, not knowing the local economy, but I had no doubt that Miss Vera Dumitru was a young woman who would make the most of every leu and ban that came her way.
I glanced at the sky, then my wrist-watch. The Queen and her daughter would soon be sitting down to dinner—without, I hoped, too much frosty anger crackling across the table between the icy blue eyes and the darker blue. Having met the young Princess, I would not at all choose to wager on the victor here, and it was best to keep clear until matters cooled.
In addition, my massive noon-time dinner was still with me, and the last thing I wanted was another hearty meal.
Instead, I headed out the southern leg of Bran’s lopsided H of roadways, to look at what lay on the other side of the castle, along the road to the all-important Bran Pass.
Chapter Twenty-five
Holmes finished his meal while interrogating the fake
Bolshevik about his boss—the man Mycroft had intended him to see—but it was clear that Tovarisch Dalca had never expressed any interest in a rural Transylvanian village. When the pudding course arrived, Holmes rose to thread his way out of the crowded terrace of tables filled with polyglot diners out to enjoy the first cool breath of the day. On the pavement outside, a quartet of Italians were descending from a white-and-gilt landau pulled by two geldings the colour of summer honey. He lit a cigarette, and walked a meandering route back to the Athenee Palace.
There he settled into the English Bar, scandalising the waiter with a request for Turkish coffee. The man was somewhat mollified when he followed that up with an order for the most expensive whisky he could see on the shelf.
An hour later, the third man on Mycroft’s list came in.
Middle thirties, good clothes, clean finger-nails, wire-rimmed glasses. He was shaved, but overdue for a haircut. Probably habitual. English, without a doubt. Educated, certainly. And just as clearly, a regular in the Athenee’s English Bar, watering hole for the high-ranking, the influential, and the stinking rich, foreign or domestic. The bar-man tucked the newcomer into a table both prominent and discreet. When the young man drew out a small note-book and silver pencil, Holmes was certain.
The Roumania correspondent for The Times.
The bar-man brought the man a glass of dark amber liquid with a small carafe of water. Holmes watched from the side of his eyes as the correspondent took a mouthful, savouring it before he swallowed, then pouring in a splash of the water.
A figure appeared in the doorway, a man who had paused there twice in the past twenty minutes. This time he walked in, straight to the corner table, pulling out the other chair. He leaned forward onto his elbows and started talking. The bar-man was aware of the newcomer, and watched the table, but made no move to approach. Less than three minutes later, the conversation was over and the newcomer left. The correspondent picked up his pencil and wrote a few lines, then returned to his glass.
Ten minutes later, a similar scene took place. And five minutes after that, another, this time a woman.
When the chair cleared after her, Holmes picked up his glass and crossed the room.
“Mr Alan Broder?”
“Yes.” The man’s eyes studied Holmes, taking in the details of clothing and stance, much as Holmes had done for him when he came in.
Holmes smiled to himself and sat down. He reached deliberately into his breast pocket, pulled out his leather note-case, and took out an engraved card, laying it on the table face-down. He nodded towards the man’s propelling pencil.
“May I?”
A small gesture of the correspondent’s fingers—ink-stained, a smudge of type-writer ribbon.
Holmes printed a word and some numbers on the back of the white card. He returned the pencil, placed his forefinger on the card, and slid it across the table to Mr Broder.
“That is a telephone number, in London, where someone always knows where to reach me. At the end of this conversation, I may owe you a favour.”
Broder studied him some more, then pulled away his gaze and turned the card over to its engraved side. All it said was:
Sherlock Holmes
Broder tapped the card on the table two, three times, then got out his own wallet and put it inside. “I imagine most people, seeing that card, take it as a joke.”
“I do not give that card to many people, Mr Broder.”
“I can understand that. I met your brother, once. He…clarified the situation for me.”
“I imagine he did.”
“What can I do for you, Mr Holmes?”
“First, you can agree that you will not make use of this conversation, in any way. I am not here. You have not spoken with me, or learned anything from me.”
“I rather suspected as much. I agree.”
“Next you can tell me what you may have heard of any threat against Queen Marie.”
“Queen—” Broder’s face was a study: first alarm, then eagerness, followed by chagrin as he remembered that he could never have heard the question. “I knew I’d regret saying yes. What kind of a threat?”
“The actual threat was directed against her daughter, Ileana, but it would appear that the intention was to drive the Queen away from Castle Bran.”
“That old place up beyond Sinaia—on the edges of Transylvania?”
“Yes.”
“Why would anyone care? I saw it once, a year ago. It’s a wreck. There are castles all over, most of them far nicer than that one.”
“And yet, Bran is the place the Queen loves.”
“I know. One would almost—”
His mouth snapped shut, the newsman’s instinctive reaction to the sin of giving away information.
Holmes waited while the man considered his options, and the promise in his pocket. “One would almost think…?” he prompted.
“That she had reasons for keeping a hideaway,” Broder said. “Private reasons.”
“Are the rumours true, then? About the Queen and Prince Barbu Știrbey?”
“How should I know?”
Holmes let one eyebrow climb. Favours would only be owed for actual contributions.
Broder gave a crooked smile. “If so, they are discreet. And since the Queen is generally looked upon fondly, the people are not as eager for scandal as they would be for a less likeable person. I understand there has always been talk about her. However, I have to say that her first four children do resemble their father. Two sons, two daughters. And generally speaking, here as in England, once a line of succession is clearly established, questions are not asked.”
“The second son—Nicholas—is the King’s?”
Broder’s voice, low to begin with, fell still more. “The boy was born in 1903. If he is someone else’s it’s not Prince Barbu. As far as I know, they did not meet until the summer of 1907—although it’s hard to credit that, considering the size of the country. At any rate, there was a peasant uprising across Moldavia and into Wallachia. Thousands were killed, thousands more arrested. The government were terrified, but the farmers did have valid claims. Prince Barbu was among those who advised the King—this is the old King, Carol—that instead of turning the army loose on the revolt, perhaps he could extend a hand of friendship to them, and offer a few reforms. That is when the Prince and Marie are said to have met. And certainly, that was when they began to see something of each other.”
“And the girl Ileana…”
“Was born eighteen months later. January, 1909.”
“I see.”
“The Queen’s last child, an infant who died before the War, was said to be his. The Prince barely left the boy’s side during his illness, which would be remarkably attentive for a mere family friend. And yet, relations are amiable between him and the King, as they are between Marie and the Prince’s wife.”
“A façade?”
“If so, it’s an enduring one, and to all indications comfortable. Nadèje Știrbey is seen in the Queen’s company both with and without her husband present, and the two women seem remarkably affectionate for rivals. As for the King, he could easily avoid the Prince, yet he shows no reluctance to work or dine with him. The Prince’s official position is that of managing the royal estates, but his position in Roumanian society is high, his family has been prominent for centuries. Both King and Queen find him indispensable, when it comes to the smooth functioning of government. For a time, his house was in effect the centre of government, since it allowed the Queen to casually drop in for conversations with visiting dignitaries.”
“Yet you seemed to think that Prince Barbu was somehow related to a threat against Princess Ileana and driving the Queen from Bran Castle. Why?”
“Had you considered that the threat could be aimed at him? Look, the royal family lives in Sinaia much of the year. If t
hey were, well, lovers, it would be impossible for them to meet either there or in Bucharest without coming to the attention of all the spies and half the gossips in Eastern Europe. But by road, in a fast car, it is less than three hours to Castle Bran, a remote spot entirely peopled by the Queen’s servants. By horse over the hills, I shouldn’t think it takes much longer. And Prince Barbu and the Queen both spend a lot of time on horseback.”
“What kind of motor does the Prince have?”
“Probably a Rolls. Don’t they all use a Rolls-Royce?”
“Even in the mountains?”
“You’re right, I did see him in something else one time, up in Sinaia. I noticed because he was driving himself—something that’s capable of more than ten miles an hour over those roads. A Citroën, I think it was.”
“Is it common knowledge that the Prince and the Queen employ Castle Bran for private meetings?”
Broder fiddled with his glass, and Holmes began to suspect that the man’s hesitation was due not to a journalist’s innate reluctance to give away hard-won information—or, not only because of it—but because of a respect for the people under scrutiny. On the other hand, there was the obligation of that telephone number…
“I was told of a joke, made at a dinner party a while ago. The sort of bitter jest that hides deep envy. No doubt variations of this one have been made for years, but things said in private are easy to deny, and easy for the targets to overlook. Not, however, when they appear in print. It seems a visiting photographer—a German-born Englishman—came through Roumania with his camera. As often happens here, he was invited to the royal palace and to a number of royal functions. The King sat for a photograph, the Queen motored with him to Bran. Both of them are generous with visitors—particularly those who have some audience in the outer world—and the Queen wrote a kind foreword to his travel memoir. Although she couldn’t possibly have read the book first.
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