‘Clearly the assailant’s beard rubbed savagely against her cheeks,’ I replied. ‘What else could it be?’
‘An ingenious and not entirely impossible supposition. However, I would call your attention very particularly to two points. First, why does the faint smell of mastic cling to those cheeks? Furthermore, if yours is the correct explanation, why was the light down hair one would expect on the woman’s upper lip completely absent, a fact I discovered by snorting away the lavender powder and thrusting aside the lip-paint with my - as you say - muscular kiss? If you provide an explanation for those puzzling facts you have solved the riddle of the missing husband.’
‘The missing husband!’ I exclaimed, astounded. ‘What connexion could there be between this poor woman and Captain Barrington? Are you suggesting she was his mistress - that he murdered her for fear of exposure and fled abroad?’
My comrade shook his head. ‘If that were true, then the case is at an end. We could set Harker of the Central Press Syndicate on him, or the Baker Street Irregulars. Or place an advertisement in the London Telegraph and offer a generous reward for information on the Captain’s whereabouts.’
He looked at me gravely. ‘No, Watson, I say we must move with the utmost speed. I believe the life of someone you have a soft spot for is in the most imminent danger.’
‘Who might that - ’ I asked, surprised.
‘Mrs. Barrington, of course,’ came the answer.
‘Mrs. Barrington?’ I repeated, gaping at my companion. ‘Why should anyone want to harm - ’
My companion brushed my words aside. ‘Not now, Watson,’ he returned. ‘Tell me, that photographic contraption given to you by the Prince, the bellows camera - are you able to work its magic?’
‘Certainly,’ I plumed. ‘Up the Grim we - ’
‘Then have a message delivered to the Palace tonight as follows: ‘Your Highness, with the unexpected return of the Codex there is nothing to keep us any longer in your country. We intend to return to England very shortly. Before departing, Dr. Watson has a small favour to ask. Please arrange for the War Minister to pose for the camera in the caparison for which we will always remember him, as the winner of the Sherlock Holmes competition. SH’.’
I exclaimed, ‘What a fine idea. What a wonderful souvenir of our time in the Balkans! I shall offer it to my Editor to accompany the adventure I plan to title The Case of The Bulgarian Codex.’
‘As you wish. And Watson, along with the camera, do not fail to bring your service revolver.’
These words from Holmes, following close on his remark that Mrs. Barrington’s life was in great danger, brought me up short. I had not up to this point taken a very serious view of the case. It seemed grotesque and bizarre rather than perilous.
While I absorbed this unexpected command, my comrade resumed, ‘I have one more important task for you. Even if you have to force him from his bed this night, ask Penderel Moon to send an urgent reply-paid telegram to the manager of the Tivoli Theatre. There is a point I wish to ascertain.’
‘Which is?’ I asked, suspending my propelling pencil.
‘Who topped the bill during the early part of April two years ago?’
The next morning the British Legation forwarded the theatre manager’s reply to our hotel. I hastened telegram in hand to Holmes’s room. He was seated in an alcove puffing on a large cigar, his feet thrust into red heelless Turkish slippers provided by the hotel. His back was to me as he gazed out on a cemetery. The tombs were simple flagstones level with the ground without crosses or columns or stelae. Scattered families sat among them in the cool air conversing with the Departed, some with little birds in cages.
Without looking round, Holmes waved me to an armchair. A hand rose over his shoulder. It pointed in the direction of a small side-table supporting several more cigars wrapped up in silver paper.
‘Do try one, Watson. They are a gift from the most devious Prince in Christendom. Don’t be alarmed - they don’t seem to be explosive. And help yourself to a cup of tea.’
He swung the chair to look at me. ‘Do I deduce from your energetic arrival and bewildered look that we have had a reply from London?’
‘We have, Holmes. You wanted to know who topped the bill at the Tivoli in early April two years ago, but for the life of me I can’t see - ’
‘ - why I would take an interest in Miss Vesta Tilley?’
‘Why, Holmes,’ I responded, gaping at him, ‘how ever did you - ?’
Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, a habit when in high spirits. He jumped up.
‘Later, Watson, later! Drink up your tea or abandon it. We must return to Mrs. Barrington’s. We are ready for the dénouement.’
Seated in the carriage my comrade’s eyes took on the introspective look I have observed whenever he exerts his full powers. What Holmes’ luminous intellect finds simple frequently bewilders me. Once again I had a sense it is not logic, cold and ordinary, which enables him to solve his cases. It is the clairvoyant’s eye for detail. Of the greats of the past, the giants on whose shoulders he modestly remarks he stands, he is most like Urbain Le Verrier, the mathematician who discovered the planet Neptune and determined its dimensions long before telescopes powerful enough to pick it out in the night sky were invented. Yet in this instance Holmes seemed determined to leave me completely in the same stygian dark.
Holmes was still resisting my demands for an explanation (“You have a grand gift of silence, Watson, now is a good time to exercise it.”) when we arrived at the Barrington villa. He banged at the door until the flustered housekeeper peered through a slit. Once more we were shown into the drawing-room. I waited for our hostess with a mix of trepidation and a high degree of irritation at Holmes’s reticence.
Soon Mrs. Barrington made her entrance. She wore a white cashmere costume with a band of lace some four inches wide encircling her waist. She greeted us with a bob and a gesture at her attire.
‘As you can see, I am hoping my husband will return at any moment,’ she explained.
Her appearance contradicted her optimistic words. With the passage of a single day her eyes had grown dark with sorrow. She plumped down on the fauteuil where she sat looking from one of us to the other with an uncertain smile. Her expression soon turned to one of apprehension, as though our sudden appearance and especially Holmes’s steadfast look had shaken her nerves.
Finally she offered, ‘Shall we return to the study?’ and once settled there she asked, ‘You have made progress, gentlemen? Have you any news of Captain Barrington?’
Holmes responded gravely. ‘We have come to tell you that half-confidences are worse than none, Mrs. Barrington. It is imperative you are absolutely frank with us. You failed to inform us of your visit to the Tivoli Theatre that early April, indeed you misled us by saying your chaperone had refused to allow you to attend. I understand why. The good Doctor here has made enquiry as to the playbill at the Tivoli at the time.’
A flush stole over Mrs. Barrington’s lovely face. She burst into a storm of passionate sobbing.
‘Holmes!’ I ejaculated, half-rising. ‘What in the name of - !’ I threw him a severe look. ‘You have badly hurt her feelings with your accusations!’
Deeply discomfited, I stared back and forth between the two. Several minutes went by before Mrs. Barrington regained her composure. Then Holmes said to her,