For several minutes Mrs. Barrington entertained us with the instruction her husband-to-be received from the great impersonator; how they purchased a close-cut black wig brushed straight back, pomaded with macassar oil; how Julia was taught to thicken her eyebrows with the eye-shadow and mascara used on the stage, and how to employ spirit gum (‘Here in Bulgaria we make use of mastic’) to hold a false beard or moustache in place, and how to develop masculine gestures and decisive, crisp movements.
Our hostess continued, ‘Finally we were sent to addresses in Soho to buy Julia’s compression shirts and built-up footwear, and to commission a pair of dyed-black mustachios, woven by skilled artisans from her own hair, to which by now I had taken my scissors. We emerged from the back of the Theatre to promenade up Regent Street and Portland Place to the Regent’s Park, Julia clad in her Captain’s uniform or one of Miss Tilley’s beautifully-tailored Savile Row suits, sporting the new mustachios.’
‘And no one gave you the slightest indication they considered you anything else but man and wife?’ I ventured.
‘Not one soul,’ she replied.
I asked, ‘And it was your idea that your husband-to-be should wear such mustachios because the Prince Regnant wears them?’
‘As you say, Dr. Watson. Like your Prince of Wales and his Homburg hats, men in Bulgaria copy every fashion set by the Knyaz.’
‘Did the wedding photograph reach your father in time?’ I enquired solicitously.
‘Yes, but only just. It meant that Papa died in peace. By the time Julia and I arrived here two weeks later he was with my mother in Paradise.’
Her face took on an ineffably sad look. She fidgeted with her enamel glove buttons. ‘Up to now,’ she continued, ‘our subterfuge has worked. Undoubtedly it forestalled Konstantin’s efforts to seize my lands.’
Tears started in her eyes. ‘Now she is gone I am completely alone. Konstantin will redouble his efforts to wrest my lands from me.’
Her beautiful face was distorted with a spasm of despair.
My companion and I sat in silence for some little time after listening to this extraordinary narrative. Holmes rose to his feet. ‘Madam, Dr. Watson and I may be able to do something about that. Let the weight of the matter rest upon us rather than you. We anticipate an appointment at the Palace very shortly.’
My spirits rose. When Holmes swoops, he swoops with the speed and certainty of the Indian kite-hawk.
He continued, in a gentler tone, ‘Should you wish to marry an English cavalry officer I am sure Watson here will find you someone suitable and would be pleased to be the Best Man. It would necessitate your returning to our shores.’
‘I shall bear that in mind, Mr. Holmes,’ came her whispered reply.
Chapter XX
IN WHICH THE SWORD STICK IS TO PUT TO USE
THE Prince responded quickly to our request for a photographic session with Colonel Kalchoff. We were to return to the Palace at sun-up on the morrow with the bellows camera. Everything would be ready. Two Palace staff would meet us at the Red Staircase to carry the heavy photographic equipment to a suitable studio.
This time we were led down a long stone-flagged passage hung with orange and lemon-coloured tapestries to a small out-of-the-way monk-like cell at the back of the building, half-hidden by rhododendrons and creepers. The walls were busy with aquarelles of flowers and inset with fragments of Roman bas-reliefs. Above a profusion of bouquets of dried flowers in vases, there hung a large picture, clearly recently painted: a view of the Bosphorus, the Golden Horn, Saint Sophia, and the great wall of Constantinople. Floating in the glow of an apocalyptic sky was a splendid horseman, Ferdinand.
More prosaically dressed in a smock, the real Ferdinand stood at an easel by the window. He had surrounded himself with varnishing pots scattered across a beautiful Aubusson rug, a paint-brush in one hand, the Marquess of Salisbury’s sword stick in the other. At our entry he stabbed the brush into a jar of cleaning fluid and turned to greet us. As he did so the doors behind us were flung open. Colonel Kalchoff strode in, dressed in the precise attire he had worn as Sherlock Holmes No. V, the fine mustachios gleaming, the Egyptian-blue cloak and its silk lining ablaze with colour. Words of greeting began to cross his lips.
‘Konstantin,’ the Prince interrupted in a business-like manner, ‘while Dr. Watson is setting up the camera, I believe there is the small matter Mr. Holmes wishes to discuss with you.’
The Prince’s tone turned to one of shocked indignation. ‘An assassination - is that not so, Mr. Holmes?’
‘I don’t see - ’ Kalchoff began, a chill of fear springing to his eyes.
My companion stepped forward, his face dark. He stood in front of the War Minister with that quick, fierce gleam of his deep-set eyes before which many a criminal had cowered. He held up the wedding photograph.
‘Colonel,’ Holmes ordered, ‘may I ask you to examine Captain Barrington’s fine mustachios in this photograph?’
A deep silence ensued.
‘But I see you do not need to examine them,’ my comrade continued coldly. ‘You are fully aware they are the very ones you are wearing.’
Without taking his eyes from the War Minister, Holmes addressed the Prince. ‘Your Highness, they are identical in the minutest degree to this wedding photograph and to the Sargent painting which you commissioned a year later, so identical it is impossible they are not the same false pair. The only way the War Minister could have obtained them is straight from the cheeks of the young woman he murdered in the forest the morning of the Sherlock Holmes competition in the belief he was killing Captain Barrington.’
My companion went on in a harsh voice, ‘In a desperate effort to save herself, the young woman pressed through the powerful hands gripping her throat and ripped the mustachios from her cheeks. By exposing her sex she hoped her killer would have mercy on her, but to no avail. The Colonel chose not to spare her life for fear of arrest and disgrace.’
With a violent movement Kalchoff swung away from Holmes. He darted a fearsome look at his master, his eyes as savage as a cornered wild beast.
In German he began, ‘Ferdinand, you have allowed me to be tricked! Do they know I did it with your - ’
Although Colonel Kalchoff was to live for another seven minutes these were to be the last words he ever spoke.
The Prince’s hand swung up. ‘Konstantin, my dearest friend,’ he returned in English, slipping the blade of the sword stick from its sheath, ‘I have yet to show you the gift Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson brought from the Prime Minister of England!’
As he uttered the word ‘England’, with the precision of a matador delivering the estocada, the Prince thrust the blade deep into Kalchoff’s throat. The Minister’s head jerked back. A terrible convulsion passed over his face. He gagged violently. One hand came up to drag at the sword. Blood sprang from almost-severed fingers, spattering the flame-coloured lining of the cloak. His mouth burst open like a laughing skull, spurting out a further torrent of blood. His good hand dropped to fumble beneath the cloak.
To my amazement, rather than stepping forward to save the hapless Minister, Holmes brought his hunting crop hard down on the man’s lowered hand. A half-cocked Apache pinfire cartridge revolver concealed beneath the cloak clattered to the floor. With no barrel, a set of foldover brass knuckles for a handgrip, and a folding knife mounted right underneath the revolver drum for use as a stabbing weapon, the Apache is probably the nastiest piece of work you can put in your pocket. Indisputably it contained the folding knife which had drained the murdered woman of her life.
The Prince was observing me with a slight smile. He said, ‘Doctor, you’re not looking quite yourself. You seem to be taken aback. You were a little tardy in drawing your service revolver. Your comrade may just have saved all our lives. Konstantin is the finest proponent in all Europe with that pistol, not disregarding even the Parisian underworld.’