No. V swept the Girardi from his head and tossed it to the cheering audience. To even louder cheers and laughter he reached up to the glistening mustachios and peeled them off inch by inch to reveal the grinning face of the War Minister Konstantin Kalchoff. With a dart of a hand he snatched the hunting crop from my comrade, the real Sherlock Holmes. To the consternation of guests unacquainted with The Six Napoleons, he brought it down like a canne de combat on the head of the plaster bust of Napoleon, smashing it to pieces. Reaching into the debris he plucked out a small black gem and held it up. There was a general gasp.
‘My heavens,’ I whispered to Sir Penderel. ‘Unless I am very much mistaken, that is the most famous pearl now existing in the world, the Tahitian pearl once owned by Rodrigo Borgia. It is reputed to bring death to its owner.’
The Sherlock Holmes Dinner commenced. The Gypsy band went into full swing with ‘The Roast Beef of Old England’. Within minutes waiters circulated, clothed and gloved in white. Little Dourga, the Hindoo dancer, had replaced Iannes the Occultist on the stage.
We were into the Shkembe Chorba - tripe soup seasoned with garlic, vinegar, and hot red pepper - when a messenger came to our table and whispered to Sir Penderel. In turn, the British Legate leaned across to us. He said in a low voice, ‘Mr. Holmes, your assistance may be required. A Captain Barrington, an Englishman resident here, has gone missing. He is married to a very beautiful Bulgarian. He left their villa on horseback yesterday on a mysterious mission, saying he would be back by sun-up today but he has failed to return. In case something untoward has happened, would you and Dr. Watson pay Mrs. Barrington a call? I consider them particular friends.’
Holmes nodded his assent. He asked, ‘Would you be good enough to describe Captain Barrington?’
‘He has lived in quiet here in Bulgaria for about two years. In stature rather below his regiment’s average, slim, with a waist that one might almost call pinched. In one respect he is similar to the Prince, his wonderful mustachios. They are as luxuriant as Ferdinand’s own. He’s as skilled as a Parthian in the saddle. I find it difficult to believe he would have fallen from his horse.’
Chapter XIV
THE STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE OF CAPTAIN BARRINGTON
THE next morning a phæton with extravagantly large wheels came from the British Legation to fetch us. Captain Barrington had not returned. We were dropped off at a fine villa near the Episcopal Palace. A maid took our cards into the interior. She reappeared and led us to a charming sitting room furnished in the English style.
Mrs. Barrington rose at our entrance. A light smell of English lavender came to us as we approached. She was slight, with small feet and hands. As linguistically gifted as the Prince Regnant, she spoke excellent and melodious English. She looked keenly at us, her aquamarine eyes - an unusual colour for a Bulgar - large and transparently clear, beneath thick, dark lashes. She wore a plain, tailor-made skirt with a white muslin blouse, the high neck supported by whalebone. Her hair was up in the latest fashion, coiled over the top of her head, puffed out into a great pompadour.
We were invited to occupy a sofa while our hostess sat across from us on a fauteuil.
The same maid who greeted us on our arrival returned with a tray of crystal glasses. Each glass of water held a long-handled spoon. Our hostess said, ‘You must try a speciality of the region. Mastic. It is derived from the resinous part of a plant found mostly on the Ægean island of Chios. We say it brings sweetness to the conversation.’
On instruction we dipped the spoons into the white paste, washing it down with the water. I pointed at a cabinet photograph she held on her lap. ‘Is that to help our investigation, Madam?’
She nodded. ‘It is the photograph taken on the day of our wedding.’
She lifted it by the mahogany frame and held it forward to Holmes, adding, ‘Please keep it with you for your search.’
My companion studied the photograph and passed it to me. It had been coloured in by an artistic hand. The smiling bride was magnificently attired in a Russian Boyar dress of gold-embroidered, mauve-coloured satin with a long overmantle of gold brocade and hanging sleeves of mauve velvet. On the plaited hair perched a large golden sun-shaped kokoshnik studded with pearls. She gazed out of the photograph with her head tilted in coquettish Dolly Varden fashion. In the background loomed the romantic and mediaeval image of Bodiam Castle in Sussex. The groom’s dark mustachios à la Prince Regnant were as Sir Penderel had described, particularly impressive.
I returned the photograph to my companion. As was his custom, he was looking Mrs. Barrington over in the minute and yet abstracted fashion which was peculiar to him. Not for the first time I noted that when he chooses, Holmes has a disarming way with women through which he very readily establishes terms of confidence with them.
The time came to obtain a detailed account of her husband’s disappearance. Mrs. Barrington rose. She led us through imposing double doors into a library or man’s study, distant from prying eyes or ears. She gestured graciously to quintessentially English, leather-upholstered chesterfield chairs. Within arm’s reach lay a tin of cigarettes. Holmes leaned forward and took one. She turned her luminous eyes upon me.
‘And you, sir, a cigarette? I can recommend them, for my husband has them specially prepared by Ionides of Alexandria. We keep them for connoisseurs like Mr. Holmes though Captain Barrington could hardly have expected such an eminent - ’
Her eyes moistened. Her voice died away in a beautiful cadence. She held out her hands as in supplication, compelling my respect and admiration. In spite of all her distraction there was a nobility in her bearing, a gallantry in the defiant chin and upraised head.
Prompted by our keen expressions, our hostess began to relate the circumstances of her husband’s disappearance, how he frequently rose early to exercise his favourite horse in the forests on the lower slopes of Mount Vitosh, always returning by dusk.
Mrs. Barrington turned to address me. ‘I believe you are most knowledgeable on horses, Dr. Watson? The horse in the photograph is my husband’s favourite. His name is Brigadier. We brought him back from England. He’s the one my husband was on when he left for the forest.’
I had taken note of Brigadier. He was a Haflinger, a well-muscled new breed, rich, golden chestnut in colour, with a refined head and light poll and a notable Arabian influence.
‘A fine choice of horse for mountainous terrain,’ I remarked.
My eyes drifted across to a large painting in oil on a gessoed poplar panel, signed by the greatest portrait painter of our time, the American John Singer Sargent.
Mrs. Barrington followed my gaze. ‘There too, you see me with my husband.’ She gestured. ‘And Brigadier.’
With her assent Holmes and I got back on our feet and went to the painting. Mrs. Barrington was depicted standing on a swathe of grass. She wore an ivory-white Persian dress and a white and green over-jacket, with a turban entwined with pearls. Her hair tumbled down her back from under it. Her smile, which we were not often to see, was striking. As though just put down, at her feet was a sarod, a musical instrument I had last heard strummed in a Kashmiri village. At her side, in lean silhouette, stood the missing husband, not tall but patrician in stance, once again in the full dress uniform of a Captain in the Connaught Rangers. The luxuriant black mustachios sprang out, so real I felt I could reach into the painting and twirl them.