‘Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, I emphasise, a very great deal relies on your success in retrieving the Codex. Either the Balkans will set fire to the four corners of Europe or there will be tranquillity among our peoples,’ he opined. ‘If the latter - ’ He paused and threw us a most encouraging look, repeating, ‘If the latter, I shall turn the Marquess of Salisbury’s sword stick into a pruning-hook as commanded in Isaiah 2-4. There will be a great Peace banquet for the players - oeufs à la turque, fillet de sole à la greque, faisan bulgare au blanc, pâtisserie Serbe, crême cardinal Monténégre, and - ’ he gave a smile, ‘finally a serving of Holmes-and-Watson Sponge with crème anglaise de paix. For that day I shall invite you to return to Sofia. Until then,’ he added, with a further, more uneasy smile, ‘pray for me.’
Chapter X
THE MYSTERIOUS RETURN OF THE CODEX
WE were now on the last leg of the journey to the setting of the crime. Through each tiny habitation, children ran alongside the steamer throwing capacious handfuls of sweet-smelling pink rose petals. If we stopped within the confines of a village - even for an instant - out popped the Mayor pressing small glass flagons of attar on us and rose-leaf jam to eat.
Once we left the Valley of Roses, the attar was replaced with bouquets of rare local flowers. In one village, our host was offered a cockerel which had grown a pair of horns. Eager for such curiosities, the Prince paid handsomely and had it loaded on the vehicle’s roof.
The track now ran through the increasingly narrow valley cut by a river my Baedeker showed as the Rilska, made turbulent by numberless springs rising in the surrounding beech and pine. In the distance we made out a troop of wood-cutters beginning their business of cutting down the trees. The trees would be sorted into logs for the salt-mines or cut up for fuel, or to be converted into charcoal for the smelting and forging of iron. At the Reichenbach Falls, had Holmes died amongst those grim rocks rather than the fiendish criminal ex-Professor Moriarty alone, the world would have called upon the wood-cutters of Meiringen to bring him back for burial, let down by ropes to a great depth from the lofty overhanging and perpendicular rocks.
Ahead of us lay a landscape sodden with recent rain. Recklessly, the Prince ran the great vehicle onward, the front tyres throwing up ever-higher walls of muddy water, the steering wheel twisting wildly in his hands. Abruptly we slewed to one side and came to a dead stop. The Prince’s efforts to drive us out of the mud by excessive use of the accelerator completed our misfortune. We were bogged down beyond the capacity of the Lifu to pull itself out. I stood by the wagonette’s side looking anxiously ahead. The broken cliffs and beetling crags were worrisomely reminiscent of the time I was lost for a week with a half-section of infantry.
With the sun at its zenith I would normally have made use of the fine Panama presented by our host - certainly such fine headgear would complement my tropical suit - but I discovered on discreet enquiry that Panamas were among our client’s favourite hats. I had placed mine under the seat, not wishing to mislead any sharp-shooter. We were well within shot of a Henri Martini.
The Prince gave up any attempt to drive out from the mire. He launched himself from the driver’s seat and went over to a man in peasant garb quietly observing our misfortune from a short distance. Given orders and a gold coin by the Prince he hastened off. After some twenty minutes of awkward silence, a fiacre splashed towards us, drawn by long-tailed chestnuts two-abreast. The Prince gesticulated impatiently from the chestnuts to the depth of mud and water. Further orders were given. We engaged in another fifteen minutes of intermittent conversation before two white oxen hove into view; their forelocks dyed a bright orange to ward off evil. With a few heaves of their huge shoulders, the Lifu steamer was hauled on to drier land. We took our seats. The journey recommenced.
The limestone cliffs jutting up from tangled forest began to tower over us, every cranny and shoulder clearly visible through the telescope. If assassins lurked up there, we would be ground-bait. I was stirred as if I had been transported back half a lifetime to my Afghan days. As in other rocky deserts, there was no shadow of a sound in all that mighty wilderness; nothing but silence. Holmes too stared ahead, shading his eyes.
The vehicle could approach our destination no further. Our host stepped from the Lifu. He pulled down the three apple-tree branches from the roof-rack and handed one to each of us, holding on to the third. With this he waved us forward.
We entered a truly ancient world by a small, almost indiscernible opening in the rock-face. The Cave Monastery had been dug centuries earlier by Orthodox monks brooding over the mutilated records of the past. We went ever deeper into the cliff, through monastic cells, common rooms and chapels dedicated to the Archangel Michael. Murals stared out at us. One depicted in gruesome detail the suicide of Judas. On we went, through the St. Theodore Church and into the Gospodev Dol Chapel decorated with portraits of the saints Vlassius, Soridon and Modestus.
Finally the Prince pointed at a small stone marker sign set into the ground. ‘There,’ he said in an excited tone - ‘that points the way to the High Altar. Come, I shall show you. Relics have been stored there for safe-keeping since times gone by.’
At the stone altar the Prince placed his apple branch on the ground and leaned forward, pressing hard on an engraved consecration cross. Slowly the side opposite slid open.
‘You see, gentlemen,’ he began, beckoning us, ‘this is where the manuscript - .’
The Prince’s expression changed abruptly. He reeled back, staring wide-eyed at an open ornate circular box. Holmes and I leaned forward, following his gaze. Before us lay a bulky manuscript beautifully bound in buckram linen and silk.
‘The Codex,’ the Prince croaked. ‘They have returned the Codex Zographensis! Mr. Holmes, despite all my efforts, word of your presence in my country must have leaked out and spread panic among the thieves.’
He stared down into the cavity in silence for some while, as though overcome. Presently he said, his voice deep with emotion, ‘Thanks to you, the dark clouds which have surrounded my pathway are beginning to lift. This calls for the firing of a feu de joie.’
Chapter XI
IN WHICH HOLMES QUIZZES THE KNYAZ
CLUTCHING the ancient manuscript, the Prince led us back to the vehicle. We began the return journey to Sofia. To reassure the public and fend off ill-wishers and rumour, the Codex would be put on public display in a blue silk bag under heavy guard.
For almost an hour Holmes sat in silence at the back of the wagonette. It was clear when I glanced back he was revolving in his mind the bearings of this unexpected turn of events. At last Holmes broke the silence.
‘Highness, there is only one point on which I should like a little more information. Why did you store the Codex in that cave church so far from Sofia?’
The Prince looked back over a shoulder and gave an uneasy smile. ‘They say a dæmon spirit of the underworld called Rim-Papa expelled the monks from those caves and made their habitations his own. You saw how even I chose not enter the cliff without a branch from a sacred apple-tree bearing blossoms? The locals believe a subterranean world is entered through caverns, or hills, or mountains, inhabited by many races and orders of invisible beings, such as shades, fairies, and especially dæmons. The Three Birds live in such caves, birds which sing the dead back to life and the living into death. The whole country lives under a dense cloud of superstition. Even if thieves were told that I stored bars of the purest gold in the Altar stone few would dare venture a single step into the interior.’