“Holmes, I—”
EDITOR’S NOTE: IT IS AT THIS POINT THAT THE DIARY PAGES HAVE MADDENINGLY GONE MISSING, SEVERAL EVIDENTLY TORN OUT. THE NARRATIVE, AS WE SHALL SEE, RESUMES OUTSIDE VARNA, AND SO WE MUST CONTENT OURSELVES WITH LISTING THE KNOWN STOPS MADE AT THAT TIME BY THE CELEBRATED TRAIN. FROM PARIS, THE ORIENT EXPRESS STOPPED IN MUNICH AND THEN VIENNA, BEFORE WENDING ITS WAY SOUTH TO GIURGIU IN ROMANIA AND FROM THERE STILL FURTHER SOUTH TO VARNA, ON THE BLACK SEA.* NORMALLY THE JOURNEY TOOK FIVE DAYS, WITH OCCASIONAL STOPS TO REPLENISH THE ENGINE’S COAL AND BOILER WATER, AS WELL AS RESTOCKING THE DINING CARS’ LAVISH GUSTATORY REQUIREMENTS. I THINK WE MAY ASSUME THIS PASSAGE WAS NO DIFFERENT.
THE NARRATIVE RESUMES MIDSENTENCE:
… arguably as exhausted by this time as its occupants, finally squealed to a panting stop, punctuated by an unending belch of steam, at Varna’s gloriously sunlit station. Though we had availed ourselves of every amenity and convenience along the way (though carefully refraining from doing so in Bucharest, as Mycroft advised), we were nonetheless travel weary, our bones rattled from a journey that had crossed all Europe.
I descended first, limping awkwardly, followed by Holmes, who handed Mrs. Walling down behind us.
“Thank you, Sherlock.”
“Mrs. Walling, aren’t you warm?”
The fact that suddenly we all experienced the rise in temperature served to distract me from this exchange. Had it not done so, I would certainly have noted Mrs. Walling’s familiar use of the detective’s Christian name. Neither, at the time, was I conscious of the fact that Holmes and the lady never looked at one another throughout these banalities. It was only later that this was brought to mind.*
Holmes helped Mrs. Walling shed her heavy traveling cloak, slid out of his own ulster, and turned to me.
“Watson, we are overdressed.”
“I’m fine,” I insisted testily, but, ignoring me, he tugged at my greatcoat with his surprisingly powerful hands, then handed off our wraps to a shabbily attired porter, who addressed him rapidly in a foreign tongue.
“Romanian,” Mrs. Walling explained. “Or Bulgarian. No matter. They all speak Russian. In the Balkans,” she informed us in a neutral tone, “frontiers and languages are fluid.”
“Can you ask when our train leaves for Odessa?”
She posed the question to the porter, who jabbered back with much gesticulating while we waited. Why is it, I wonder, that when such seemingly simple exchanges occur in a foreign tongue they always appear to consume inordinate amounts of time?
Finally she turned. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“Maybe?”
“Tomorrow?”
Holmes and I had spoken simultaneously. This information differed from our itinerary.
She turned back to the porter, and more rapid-fire talk and gesticulation ensued.
“Most likely tomorrow. We will need rooms for the night.”
This at least was easily accomplished. A large, if undistinguished, Hotel Terminus was situated within two minutes of the station. Two minutes toting several pieces of bulky luggage on a warm day is not the most difficult task, but not the pleasantest, either. We were surrounded by packs of chattering children, palms extended, some offering to carry our luggage (which I was convinced we should never see again), others simply begging. They settled about and traveled with us like a squadron of houseflies.
“Watch your pockets,” Anna Walling cautioned us. I was indeed obliged to slap away an importunate hand reaching for the notebook bulging in my pocket.
At the hotel, while Holmes booked rooms, I located the concierge and obtained a postcard, on the back of which I drew a heart before posting it to Juliet c/o poste restante in London. After depositing our belongings in adjoining rooms on the third floor, we gathered in the foyer for a stroll through the city. We were all, I think, eager for some diversion after days of confinement aboard the train.
From the first, we could not escape the impression that we had somehow contrived to journey backward in time. Regardless of its attractions, this part of the world appeared not merely impoverished, but fifty years behind the conveniences we in England take for granted. Such streetlamps as we observed were still illumined by gas; roads were largely unpaved, and motorcars were nowhere to be seen. The port of Varna on the Black Sea was obviously famous for its sun-drenched situation. The shingle, even in January, boasted hardy sun worshippers and was fronted by an esplanade up and down which visitors and holiday-makers promenaded, taking their ease.
The local population appeared a polyglot of Bulgars, Greeks, Armenians, Turks, Romanians, also Macedonians, more than a smattering of Russians, Magyars, and, of course, ubiquitous Jews. There was a large cathedral topped with various silver-gilt, onion-shaped domes, and the sea air was pungent with competing aromas, ranging from the cooking fires of differing cuisines to the not unpleasant scent of fish wafting from nearby trawlers.
The sun was soon setting behind several white-and-pink stone public buildings, the most modern features of this provincial metropolis. In this part of the world it was accounted far too early for supper, but a waterside bistro with a name in Greek lettering above its shutters afforded us a respectable charcuterie, dominated by lamb.
“It makes a refreshing change after days of cordon bleu,” Holmes admitted.
We ordered a bottle of the local white we found undrinkable.
“Ouzo,” Mrs. Walling informed us, smiling. “It is an acquired taste.”
I declined to acquire it.
“Holmes, what are you looking at?”
“Those curious tourists.”
I twisted in my chair in the direction of his gaze.
Two gentlemen, attired in identical straw boaters and seersucker jackets, were using binoculars to scrutinize the horizon. All the fishing craft had long since put into port.
“What can they be looking at, Holmes? There’s nothing to see.”
“That is what makes them curious.”
“They’re looking at us, Doctor.” It was Mrs. Walling who grasped the detective’s meaning.
Holmes resumed his meal.
“It was to be expected,” he conceded. “When we failed to appear at the Gare de Lyon, they realized their mistake.”
“What will they do?”
Holmes tried the wine again and made a face. “They are unsure.”
“Unsure of what?”
“Are we Mr. Holmes and party, poking our noses into sensitive Jewish issues…”
“Or?”
“Or are we, as our passports and visas proclaim, the Altmont party, bound for St. Basil’s Monastery? In a word, have they been trailing the wrong troika?”
“But in London,” I objected, “they saw me. They saw Mrs. Garnett…”
“Yes, you were seen in London,” the detective agreed, “and a description has certainly been circulated, but if what you report of your encounter with your spurious stockbroker is accurate—”
“It is,” I insisted vehemently.
“—and no actual photograph has been transmitted, they cannot be sure. Very likely they will not take chances. Tomorrow, we will give them their answer.”
“How will we do that?” Even the knowledgeable Mrs. Walling was at a loss.
“By visiting the Monastery of St. Basil and studying the motets of the Orthodox liturgy. The metropolitan* is expecting us.”
Tomorrow, however, would prove too late. Returning to our hotel, we ascended to the third floor where Mrs. Walling unlocked her door while Holmes and I repaired to our room, only to be startled by what we beheld there. The place had been turned topsy-turvy, suitcases flung open, linings slit, mattresses gutted, goosedown like snow everywhere, the huge wooden wardrobe tipped on its side and our clothing strewn about pell-mell. I searched frantically and was relieved to find my Webley where I had wedged it in the toe of a boot. My rolled socks, as it proved, were deemed unworthy of their attention, and thus my cartridges were likewise safe. Had they found bullets, doubtless the
y would have redoubled their efforts to locate my weapon.
Holmes’s copy of War and Peace had been torn in half and his cherished violin smashed to bits. It was perhaps the only time I ever beheld the detective stupefied. I don’t believe I understood fully the fiddle’s importance to him until this instant. He sat as one turned to stone, holding the instrument’s fragments in his open hands, staring with unseeing eyes at the shards as they slid from his fingers.**
More fortunately, my journal had escaped their clutches. I always carry it with me.
It was at that moment we heard the muffled cry.
“Sherlock!”
“Anna!” Holmes exclaimed, and we ran back to Mrs. Walling’s room.
Clothing, including articles of intimate apparel, as well as toiletries and miscellaneous items of no conceivable interest or value, had been torn to shreds and flung about as though by a madman. Mrs. Walling did not own (or at any rate, did not travel with) much in the way of jewelry, but such as she had remained conspicuously untouched.
She was sitting motionless on the bed, facing the window, her back to us.
“Mrs. Walling, are you all right?” I asked.
She turned, displaying an ashen face. Unable to speak, she could only stare, those violet eyes displaying an emotion I had yet to behold: fear.
“The Protocols!” shouted Holmes. “Where are the Protocols?”
8.
TEA
“Your first thought was of the Protocols!”
Lying on the remains of the mattress in our demolished room, I could clearly hear the unhappy woman’s voice through the wall we shared with hers.
Holmes’s reassuring murmur was incomprehensible, but I could guess its substance. He’d seen she was unharmed.
“But still—!” And then, as another thought struck her, expressed so I could hear it distinctly: “What was the ‘frightful cost’ you alluded to in obtaining them?”
“They are my responsibility.” His voice was a trifle louder now as he evaded her question. “Surely you can see that. Anna, we are struggling to contain a genie in a bottle that is threatening to burst at any moment. The pusillanimous thing already exists in three languages—”
“Two!” she sullenly corrected.
“Three,” he gently insisted, “if we count the English translation you are carrying. Where is it?”
“Safe.”
“Give it to me.”
“No.”
“Anna.”
There was the sound of shuffling and, as I thought, the rustling of clothing unfastened.
“Thank you.”
Then silence.
“What now?”
Holmes heaved a sigh.
“We must go through the motions.”
“Sherlock—”
“Gideon. We must play our parts, Miss Hunter.”
Another silence, followed by—
“Do me up.”
* * *
“Mr. Gideon Altmont,” the police captain read in hesitant English, leafing through Holmes’s passport. Then, taking up the second, he savored, “Colonel Rupert Morcar,” glancing briefly in my direction before perusing the third. “Miss Sophie Hunter,” he intoned with evident relish, allowing his frank gaze to rest on the exquisite Mrs. Walling for an uncomfortable length of time before returning his attention to our other papers. She took the occasion to put on her reading glasses. If she thought by this action to nullify or dilute the effect of her beauty, I am not at all certain she succeeded.
As he scanned our documents, the official made no further comment, granting us time to examine our surroundings and interlocutor. We were in a high-ceilinged room in one of those imposing pink-and-white stone buildings I had previously had occasion to remark. The desk and our chairs, squeezed into one corner, were the only furnishings (aside from a massive filing cabinet) in the gigantic place, which was big enough to host a ball and for all I knew had originally served that purpose. Electric lights in wall sconces flickered intermittently, the result, I judged, of a primitive power apparatus, while above the desk, a wafting fan of the kind in India we termed a punkah was propelled by a small boy seated cross-legged on the marble floor, his back to the wall. He tugged continuously at the rope which controlled its pendulous swing. Throughout the interview that followed, I cast looks now and again in the punkah wallah’s direction. Neither the little fellow’s expression nor his mechanical gestures betrayed the least variation. In my estimation the ceiling was too far above us for the device’s sway to confer any benefit on the room or its occupants.
“I am Captain Valerian,” the man behind the desk informed us without elaboration. His Armenian name seemed in no way at odds with his Bulgarian rank or the tarboosh he chose not to remove throughout our interview. “You say you have been robbed?” His hair beneath the fez was brilliantined black and, I suspected, dyed. A monocle in his right eye seemed to have taken up residence there from birth. Across his upper lip ran the thinnest possible dark moustache. It might almost have been applied with a bit of charcoal. Something in his aspect suggested his health was not robust.
“Our rooms at the Hotel Terminus were broken into and vandalized. Clothing and property have been damaged or taken, my violin destroyed,” Holmes informed him.
Mrs. Walling relayed this in Russian, explaining her role as our translator.
“Violin?” The policeman coughed, politely covering his mouth with the back of a white-gloved hand. He, too, spoke Russian.
“We are on our way to St. Basil’s, outside Odessa, to study liturgical motets.”
Captain Valerian cupped a hand to his ear. “Liturgical—?”
“Anthems. Music of the Greek Orthodox Church. We are endeavoring to preserve such music for posterity, lest it perish from—”
The policeman interrupted her translation in accented English: “Western ears?” Clearly he understood more than we’d supposed. The question was put in a neutral tone, but I nonetheless sensed a lurking hostility. It was followed by another cough and the introduction of a handkerchief. From the blood flecks visible on the cloth and now on his glove, I suspected the man had contracted phthisis.*
“I believe in the value of preserving history and art,” Holmes stated sententiously. “This is what I do.”
“What you do,” the other echoed, again in English. His cough racked him again, and he had recourse to a carafe of what I hoped was water.
“I beg your pardon.”
We waited ’til the fit subsided and the policeman returned to meditatively thumbing our passports.
“If you wish to satisfy yourself regarding my credentials,” Holmes suggested, “please feel free to look up the entries attributed to me in Grove’s Dictionary of Music and Musicians, published by the Oxford University Press. You will find articles under my name regarding Gregorian Chants, the music of Hildegarde of Bingen, and songs from the Benediktbeuern Abbey of Bavaria.”
Valerian, who clearly understood, nonetheless allowed Mrs. Walling the formality of repeating the detective’s words in Russian.
I confess I marveled at Holmes’s assurance in manufacturing this pack of lies. It was certainly the case that he knew and had written about medieval music, but never a word for Grove’s that I knew of. And certainly nothing under the byline of his present alias. No doubt he gambled the odds of the celebrated reference work lying about were remote.
Valerian turned to Anna Walling.
“I am a music copyist,” she explained from behind her spectacles. “We are expected at St. Basil’s.”
“And you?” He coughed anew and addressed me. I had had time to think of my reply.
“An enthusiastic amateur,” I explained, smiling. “I’ve been helping defray the costs of the trip for the privilege of viewing the manuscripts.”
“Very good of you,” Holmes murmured.
The policeman sat back, tapping his lips with a gloved forefinger.
“It is fortunate you kept your travel documents with you,” Valerian
observed. Were his words intended to convey suspicion? From his bland expression, it was impossible to say.
“Surely that is a sensible traveler’s precaution. Captain, what is to be done regarding our burglary?” Holmes’s tone became a trifle peremptory. Anna Walling strove to echo his tone in her translation. Her English, I was now aware, had resumed its original thick Slavic inflection.
Taking his time, the policeman removed his monocle, breathed on it several times, then polished the lens with the bloodstained handkerchief before rescrewing it in front of his eye, after which he favored us with a wintry regard.
“We will fill out a report.”
“A report.”
“Yes. You will please to make lists of all damaged or missing property.”
“Captain,” I interposed, “where is the British consulate?”
“In Sofia. Three hundred and eighty kilometers inland.” I believe it gave him some pleasure to say this. Before I could expostulate, Valerian brandished our itinerary. “Tomorrow you go to Odessa. There you stay—?”
“At the Grand Hotel,” Mrs. Walling replied, reaching for our documents.
After a moment’s hesitation, he shrugged, handing them back to her and rattling off a passage in Russian, followed by a smirk of the pencil-thin moustache.
“He says if they recover any of our property or apprehend the thieves, we will be contacted in Odessa.”
“He said something else,” Holmes intuited.
She coloured. “He did.”
* * *
17 January. A greater contrast between the Orient Express and the dilatory milk train that bore us northward paralleling the coast to Odessa could hardly be imagined.
While the Orient Express was a virtual hotel on wheels, furnished with every modern amenity, the “Odessa Flyer,” as Holmes snidely dubbed it, had nothing in the way of a dining car, let alone food. We were obliged to sit among a very different class of traveler, hard workers who seldom had the opportunity or perhaps inclination to bathe, wedged beside us on crammed wooden benches without cushions. The windows, minus shades or glass, admitted all kinds of dust and agricultural odors along with the occasional welcome gust of sea air. According to the map, the distance between the two cities was less than three hundred miles. In Europe such a distance might have taken six hours in a proper train; crossing the Bulgarian border into Romania and then across the Romanian frontier into Russia, it consumed the better part of twelve. Every now and again we were treated to tantalizing glimpses of the Black Sea. The rest of the time the train meandered as though unsure of its route, through endless fields populated by a seemingly inexhaustible population of toiling peasantry. Our fellow passengers, I must own, were a genial sort and kind enough to offer us some suspicious cheese, which we thought wise to decline.
The Adventure of the Peculiar Protocols Page 12