“I suggest you do not tell her. Don’t let Mikó have his say.”
“Sir, are you suggesting that I have the man…”
“Not killed. Merely pull his fangs. He was found outside the King’s rooms with a gun, after all. It would be easy enough to establish that his argument was with Ferdinand, rather than Marie. If he stands trial, it will come out—however, you may be in a position to find a doctor who will declare him mad. The poor fellow need not be hanged, or shot, merely put quietly away. The man could even be made quite comfortable, were the government to seize his considerable assets. He has no family, after all. But he must never communicate with the Queen or Princess Ileana. And you will need to be diligent that word of the man’s claim never gets out. In fact, if you can arrange a day or two delay from the police in their investigations, I shall see that any corroborating evidence disappears from his house. After that, even if a rumour does get out, it will look like nothing but a sad dream.”
The Prince eyed the man across from him, then stood. He held out his hand. Holmes rose, and took it.
“I regret,” the Prince said, “that I will not have the opportunity to know you better, you and your lady wife.”
“Sir, the sentiment is mutual.”
Chapter Fifty-two
Breakfast came, to the sunny morning room where I sat with Queen Marie and the Princess. On its heels came Holmes and Prince Barbu, smelling of tobacco, tuica, and satisfaction. The servants had brought large trays of bread rolls and fruit and a dozen other temptations that helped me forget the bruises darkening my skin. Ileana slipped bits of sausage under the table-cloth to the dog while she told the Prince the adventure from her point of view. The Queen listened and smiled and tossed in the occasional remark.
And then it was over: table clear, servants gone, the Princess’ eyes drooping a little in the warm air drifting through the window. Prince Barbu lit a cigarette for the Queen, then stood.
“I will telephone to His Majesty’s doctor, Ma’am, if you do not mind, then ask if His Majesty would like to see me before I go home.”
“I’m sure Nando would enjoy a brief talk.”
“Oh, and I forgot to say—Nadèja told me to ask you over for tea.”
“I would love to, but perhaps in a few days. Today Ileana and I will be returning to Bran.”
Ileana’s eyelids flew open. “Today? I don’t have to wait?”
“I think our exile has gone on long enough. Can you gather your things?”
“Faster than you can!” She laughed and ran out of the room, the dog at her heels.
The Prince smiled at the door she’d flitted out of. “It is a blessing she can still be so…nearly childlike.”
“Oh, you should have seen her in London—quite the young lady. But yes, here she can be free. She would love to see Nadèja, too. Why don’t the two of you motor over to Bran? The gardens are spectacular, and they’ll fade very soon.”
“We will enjoy that. Sir, Madam,” he said, turning to us. “It was a pleasure.”
He left. The Queen rubbed out her cigarette in the marble tray. “I must let the servants know that I am leaving. I hope the two of you—but wait: you arrived on a motor-cycle, I was told. Will it be necessary for you to ride it back again?”
“Oh, I hope not,” I said with feeling.
She laughed. “Then you shall come with us. Although I imagine the conversation might be less than scintillating, following the much-interrupted night.”
“Madam, this is one time when I would choose soft upholstery over the wittiest of talk.”
* * *
—
It was just as well that I was not anticipating a compelling chat with Victoria’s granddaughter. Even Holmes, though remaining bolt upright, allowed his eyelids to drift shut on some stretches of the road.
When we reached Bran, Ileana scrambled out of the car in a most un-royal fashion to confront Florescu.
“How is Gabi? Have you seen her? When can I go to her?”
The major-domo blinked at the onslaught. “Good morning, Your Highness. Gabriela is fine. I was at the house when the police brought her back, two hours ago. They stayed to interview her, and when they left she was very tired. I expect she will sleep for a time. As for a visit…” The major-domo looked to the Queen for guidance.
“Not today,” Marie said briskly, and before her daughter’s protests could rise up, she pointed out that Gabriela needed rest, that she could not rest if there was a Royal Princess in her house, and that arrangements would be made to bring her to the castle for a visit on the morrow.
It was, Ileana’s face admitted, fair enough, although she continued to wheedle until the Queen fixed her with The Look. She subsided, and said that she thought she would have a nap herself.
The Queen watched her walk away, the expression of maternal command fading into simple affection. She then turned to us.
“When Mr Florescu has brought me up to date,” she said, “I shall go for a ride. Would you two like to join me? There’s sure to be riding outfits that would fit you.”
We thanked her politely and said perhaps another day, which did not fool her a bit. She went off across the courtyard towards her rooms—but when the butler made to follow, we waylaid him.
“Mr Florescu,” Holmes said, his voice silky. “I believe we need to have a conversation.”
“Sir?” The man looked down his nose at the hand impeding his forward progress. “Concerning what?”
“The shade of Bran,” I said. Seeing his lack of comprehension, I leaned forward to make it quite clear. “The ghost in your castle walls. By name of Andrei Costea.”
He didn’t try to pretend. He gulped, shot a glance after the Queen, and said, “I will come. When she is finished with me.”
“We will be waiting,” Holmes said, more threat than promise.
As we walked up the stairs, I finally had a chance to ask Holmes how much he’d learned from our ghost.
“Only what he could tell me in approximately two minutes. I was taken aback when the door opened and it was his face rather than yours, but he seemed clear on his mission. Once he’d described how he’d got there, and what had so interested you, I left, hoping to catch the Queen’s car before the driver returned it to the garage. The boy did say that you’d found him in a hidden stairway behind the walls, and that he had some kind of peep-hole overlooking the village. But he had no idea why you were interested that the doctor’s car had been near Bran on Sunday evening.”
“I didn’t get much more than that, myself. I felt that satisfying my curiosity was less important than immediate action. And speaking of which, I do apologise for going back on my promise to you. That I would stay in the rooms.”
“Understandable, Russell,” he said.
The doors to our rooms were still closed, and proved locked. I rapped on the wood. “It’s us, Andrei.”
The latch slid back. One step inside the room gave me the answer to one of my questions: yes, at least some of the castle’s servants were in on the secret. He’d been brought food, drink, and a new shirt, one with considerably less decoration than the one from Holmes’ drawer. And possibly scissors and a razor, since he was clean-shaven now and his moustache had been trimmed.
I fastened the latch. Something about the gesture brought a degree of wariness to Andrei’s face—or perhaps it was the way Holmes and I loomed at him, looking like the word interrogation brought to life.
I touched Holmes’ arm, summoning up a reassuring smile. “Hello, Andrei. I hope you’ve been comfortable? I am sorry we were gone so long.”
He stopped backing up, although his face remained guarded. “Is good. I slept on…” He gestured at the settee. “Chair?”
“The settee? You should have used one of the beds.”
He looked shocked. “No! Setter fine. Nicer than bed on stair
s.”
“I imagine so. And I see they brought you some food.”
“Yes, I—” He realised what he had said, and shut his mouth.
“Don’t worry, we’re here to help,” I said. And though Holmes looked at me sharply, it was true. The least we could do, here in Bran, was solve the problem of one formerly dead deserter. “Sit down, please.” When he stayed on his feet, even eyeing the door, I walked over to the chairs by the window and tempted him with, “I need to tell you about Gabriela.”
“You found Gabi? Where? She good?”
“She’ll be fine. We found her, and set her free. And then found the man who took her.”
The ploy worked. He followed me to the chairs, and plopped down on one of them, as ungainly as an adolescent. I did not understand the muttered phrases that spilled from his mouth, but I knew a prayer of relief when I heard one.
“Ah,” he said. “Sorry. I say I happy she good. And I thank you. She good person, I think.”
“Oh, so she’s a friend? Did you know her before you returned to Bran in January?”
“Not friend, not…how you say, open?”
“Directly?
“Direct, yes. I see her work, I hear her talk with others, always happy, never, er, complain. Friend of Vera.”
I nodded, but let the name go for the moment, and gave him a simplified and fairly misleading version of how we had found Gabi. He could follow English when spoken slowly, and he chuckled at the picture of Holmes and me on the motor-cycle—then laughed aloud at the contribution of the dog and his royal owner. I admit I stretched things out just a bit, hoping that Florescu would arrive before the questioning turned around on his protégée…
Finally, a knock came, and I went to let in the butler.
With him, to my surprise, was Vera Dumitru.
Andrei shot to his feet and turned scarlet. Vera gave him one quick glance, then ignored him completely. He seemed not to know what to do with his hands. And when we brought in chairs for our new guests, again he looked longingly at the door, but in the end perched on the edge of his chair, head down, hands clenched together between his knees.
I let Holmes get things started. The two men would respond to his prompting more readily than mine.
“Mr Florescu, there are things you have misled us about, and facts that you have failed to put before us. To begin with, I would like you to explain how Andrei Costea came to be living behind the wall of Castle Bran.”
It took a long time, an hour or more of sentence fragments, interruptions, and translation from Mr Florescu, but slowly, the story emerged of the shade of Castle Bran.
Chapter Fifty-three
Once there was a young farmer boy who lived in a quiet corner of an empire, barely aware of the great world in distant parts. He was not a particularly handsome boy, nor terribly clever when it came to witty remarks and the things held in books, for his family was poor. But then, everyone in the town was poor, so what did that matter? And yes, his father could be wicked when he’d drunk too much, but that, too, was not unusual. The boy loved the family’s horses, and his neighbours found that beasts trained by the boy would work harder than most. His hands were clever, too, so that the carts he repaired and the shutters he built stayed together under hard use.
There was a man in the village—a man of some importance, paid a small stipend by the nearby city to watch over the derelict castle on the hill. He had once been a school-teacher, or perhaps he’d merely gone to school, and had no sons or daughters of his own. Instead, he became an uncle to the children of others, finding tutors to help with examinations, helping to pay for books and uniforms and the occasional tuition. Not that the boy showed much promise when it came to school, but the man was kind, and sometimes when the boy’s father raged, the man made up a bed before the fire, to let the boy sleep.
The boy had friends. One girl in particular, older than he and far more clever, brought him joy and teased him—gently—even while she said that the village would not hold her for long. But until she flew away, she let him stay close, let the boy bring her gifts and make her laugh.
As the boy grew, his father became harder and harder on him. What was worse, he took to hitting the boy’s mother as well. Until one day the boy realised that he was no longer a boy—that he stood eye-to-eye with his father, and his work with the horses had made him strong. So he told his father that the beatings must stop. And soon after that, the father left, taking with him the leather pouch of coins kept under the hearth-stones.
Not long afterwards, the mother turned her face to the wall, and died.
Around the same time, the war that had been growing on the other side of the world suddenly came near. The neighbouring country was now the enemy, and soldiers were needed. The boy’s older brother had a twisted foot, their younger sisters were too small to work, so the boy signed the papers to be a soldier, arranging for his pay to be sent home.
His first battle was his last. It was close enough to home that, were the smoke ever to clear, he could have seen the shape of familiar hills in the distance. Not that the smoke and dust were ever less than choking. Not that he had the leisure to stand and search the ridge-lines.
Once, years before, when the soldier was very young, he’d seen a neighbour pulled from a stall after the stallion inside had gone berserk. He’d had nightmares for years—still did, at times—about what it must have been like to be trapped inside that wooden space with a ton of kick and steel and fury.
That was what battle was like, only without the walls.
The blows came from all sides. Bones broke, blood flew—without pause, with no moment to think, to look around, to figure out which man was an enemy and which a brother soldier. He was hit, and bashed, and found himself on the ground and got up and was run over, and once a vivid scarlet bayonet came at his guts, and only missed disembowelling him by an inch.
When he woke, it was night. Everything was pain. The world groaned and throbbed. He went away, as many times as he could, but it was either still dark, or dark again, when he came around at last, and thirst drove him to his feet.
He couldn’t quite think what he was supposed to do. There were men moving around in the distance, lights and noises, but he needed water, and there was a stream somewhere out there, he was pretty sure…and so he began walking.
Then it was evening, and there were other men on the road, but he kept clear of them, stepping into the trees. The forest was cool, and he was feverish. He dropped his rifle and equipment belt, then his coat, and his hat.
He woke to the sound of feet moving across a packed-earth floor. He hurt, but not as badly, and mostly in his head and in his belly. He was thirsty, but he felt as if he’d drunk not too long before. He was inside, but it was not a house he knew. He was pretty sure he’d know what he was doing there, after another sleep or two.
It wasn’t exactly amnesia, for after his fever stayed down, and after the dizziness and headache faded, he did remember who he was and where he was from. But under that dust-thick knowledge lay the seething of battle, the horror of being trapped in a stall with a maddened beast that hated him enough to break his every bone and kick him to a pulp.
Why on earth would he go back to that? Germany and Austria were far away. He had done his part for their argument.
He stayed that winter with the old lady who had found him. He earned his keep, chopping enough firewood to keep her for years, digging a new toilet pit, repairing her roof. When the spring came, he laced on his boots and dressed in the clothes she had made for him, and he walked through the hills to his home.
He went by night, when the village was silent, and woke his older brother by scratching at the shutters until they flew open to chase away the gnawing rat.
There he learned that he was dead and buried in the churchyard.
They talked, the two brothers. The village had found jobs
for the elder, and for one of their sisters. The government had sent money to thank them for giving the army a life. There was no need, the older brother said, for the younger to return to his headquarters, possibly to stand trial for desertion.
“They shoot deserters, don’t they?” he asked.
And the young soldier admitted that they did.
“So go. You don’t need to stay here.”
“But…Magda?”
“Magda loves another. You are too young. Go away—far away, where no one is fighting and no one will wonder at a boy who is not in uniform.”
They did not know that there was no such place in all of Europe. But a boy who had clearly been wounded, whose body was still an angry red mess, and moreover, a boy whose clever hands and strong arms were useful, in towns and villages that were bereft of men? A boy like that could slip in, find a place, and live quietly for a while.
He did return home twice in the years that followed: at night, and seeing only his brother. But the last time, his brother was about to marry, and told him not to come again. “My wife won’t understand,” he said. “Her uncle is a policeman, and I won’t ask her to lie to him.”
Sadly, the soldier left, and went back south, and settled into a village that needed a pair of clever hands. And he tried to be happy there, and he tried to fall in love with a local girl, but the growing need for his own hills, the sound of his own language, grew in him like an infection.
And so he went home, by night. Only this time he did not go to scratch at his brother’s shutters. Instead, he sought out the man who had protected and encouraged him all those years before.
A man who was now in a position to offer a certain degree of shelter, but at a cost.
Namely: no one could know.
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