‘You concealed the Codex out here for that reason alone?’ my comrade pursued.
‘And because no lesser authority than your British Museum assured me such caves are ideal for the preservation of ancient parchments.’
‘Namely?’ Holmes enquired, leaning forward with interest.
‘As you and Dr. Watson discovered, the air is absolutely clean and free of dust. The interior is in permanent twilight. And, being so deep in the cliff, it remains cool no matter the season,’ the Prince finished.
‘What temperature would that be?’ I asked.
‘A permanent 11° to 12° Centigrade.’
Holmes asked, ‘How long has the Codex been stored there?’
‘From the very moment I ascended the throne.’
‘Which is - please remind me - how long?’
‘Twelve years.’
‘I see,’ Holmes murmured with an enigmatic look.
No one spoke for a further two hours until our host indicated we were about to stop for a short respite. He brought the wagonette to a halt beside a cold, clear brooklet which sang like a swallow as it rippled by. The Prince stepped from the Lifu and gave a signal. A stream of servants emerged from the bushes and ran towards us. Two erected a green-lined parasol. Others opened cases and piece by piece brought out a richly-ornamented wine cooler, three Regency silver-gilt dinner plates and silver-gilt serving tongs. A further servant waiting his turn now appeared, carrying silver tureens which he placed one by one before us.
‘For you, Mr. Holmes,’ said our host, ‘slices of roast beef, to be followed by treacle sponge with Madagascan vanilla custard. For you, Dr. Watson, smoked Scottish salmon - the very dishes which I believe you ordered at Simpson’s Grand Cigar Divan.’
He sighed nostalgically.
‘In my mind’s eye I see Simpson’s now,’ he continued. ‘The crystal chandeliers, the French-polished panelled walls, the roasts carved from the trolley.’
He pointed towards the volcanic rim of Mount Vitosh looming above us, its snow-tipped heights changing to rose and orange with the slow decline of the sun.
‘But when I am there I must be here. When I am here I must be there. I am at peace nowhere for long.’
Chapter XII
IN WHICH HOLMES QUIZZES ME
THE Prince dropped us off at the Panachoff hotel. He requested, ‘Dr. Watson, when you publish this adventure, I know you must give your comrade the best lines but spare a few for me. I hope I have not been unamusing.’ At this he drove off, the cockerel that had grown a pair of horns still protesting on the roof-rack.
The Panachoff was a dilapidated yellow four-story edifice sited in pleasant gardens at the end of a long tree-lined avenue. In the heat of the day, the rooms were kept cool by tightly-closed wooden shutters. The occasional earthquake had caused heavy cracking in what was visible of the foundations. Although it was considered the best of Sofia’s few hotels, the wood had not been fully seasoned before the hotel was built. As a result unpleasant insects abounded, disturbing our sleep.
We decided to remain in Sofia only a day or two more, long enough for Holmes to take part in the first international Sherlock Holmes competition and for us to be guests of the British Legate for the Royal Command performance at the Alhambra Theatre. Despite the unexpected return of the Codex, the Prince insisted we retain the handsome fee. In addition our generous client presented me with the Sanderson Mahogany Bellows camera which accompanied us to the caves but which remained in its dust-proof container on the Lifu steamer’s roof. I determined to put the Sanderson to use during our return journey, diverting to capture for posterity the Alpine setting of Holmes’s great triumph over evil, the Reichenbach Falls, the place of death of ex-Professor James Moriarty.
I dressed for dinner, emerging to find Holmes looking out on to the street. His face was rigid. An English language newspaper lay open on the table. He pointed at it.
‘Watson, this was left for us by Sir Penderel. He has marked a piece on page two.’
I turned to the bold headline: ANOTHER ATTEMPT ON THE LIFE OF THE KNYAZ. FIERCE FIGHT.
I read aloud, ‘Two days ago, while showing our beautiful land to eminent foreign guests, there was an outrageous and violent attempt on the life of His Royal Highness, starting with a great explosion followed by a volley of dynamite cartridges. Unfortunately for the assassins and their evil pay-masters, the Prince was not in the least intimidated. According to the eyewitness account of the Royal chauffeur, His Royal Highness leapt from the vehicle and ran straight towards the assailants. Made fearful by our beloved ruler’s resolution, the assassins emerged like a plague of vermin from behind a boulder and rushed off towards scrubland. With shouts of scorn, the Knyaz fired several pistol shots, killing two attackers and wounding at least two more.’
A grotesque nature morte photograph accompanied the article. Two bodies were propped up against a stunted willow tree. The yellowy-white faces stood out in harsh and discordant contrast to the full Russian military uniforms in which they were dressed. It was known the Palace kept a supply of cadavers of failed assassins in reserve in a deep-freeze in the royal ice-house to put before the camera, clad according to the enemy of the day. One of the cadavers was the Russian agent Captain Nelidoff, executed some months earlier for his intrigues. Nelidoff’s corpse in a variety of uniforms had been of particular utility. It had the further benefit of pricking the authorities in Peterhof.
Perplexed, I put the newspaper down. ‘Holmes, we had no chauffeur except the Prince. I saw no evidence of shots from his palm pistol hitting our attackers. As to this photograph - ’
Holmes stared thoughtfully out of the window, so engrossed in his thoughts that he hardly made a return to my observation.
‘Clearly it was composed before we left Sofia,’ he responded at last, with an abstracted look. He left his seat to take a few turns up and down, pacing the room with his head sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped behind him. Finally he turned to engage me.
‘Watson, think back a little. When we set off on our journey with the Prince, how did he describe our destination?’
‘You mean the monastery complex of Ivanovo, in the valley of the Roussenski Lom River?’
‘Indeed, that was the location, but what of the direction?’
‘North-east, he said.’
‘Yet despite a principal thoroughfare heading in that direction we set off due east, towards the Eastern Rhodopes. Why?’
‘To throw off assassins in our wake?’ I offered. ‘Even then, look what happened at the Stone Wedding.’
My comrade continued to look thoughtful.
‘Perhaps,’ he responded. After a while he continued, ‘How would you describe our trip to the caves?’
‘Distinctly memorable, Holmes.’
‘Memorable, yes. And - ?’
‘The Prince was most companionable.’
‘Yes, very companionable. What else, my dear Boswell?’
‘Educational! I have never learnt so much about volcanic activity - phreatic eruptions, volcanic bombs, lapilli fragments! As to butterflies - !’
‘Indeed, butterflies,’ Holmes agreed, with an expressive tightening of the jaw. ‘It will take weeks to clear out Callophrys rubi and Erebia aethiops from my brain’s attic.’
‘As to the butterfly the Prince himself discovered in 1886 - Cupido decoloratus - ’