‘‘Better to reign in Hell than to serve in Heaven’.’
‘I asked Penderel Moon if he had heard the words before.’
‘And?’
‘It’s a quotation from Paradise Lost. Kalchoff knew he was supping with Satan. He would have been wiser to use a longer spoon.’
‘And Sir Penderel?’ I asked. ‘Was he in on the Barringtons’ masquerade?’
‘Most likely,’ came the reply. ‘A man so assiduous in England’s affairs will go far. We must have a word in Mycroft’s ear. I foresee Moon becoming our Ambassador to St. Petersburg, even the Vatican.’
Chapter XXI
IN WHICH HOLMES SPRINGS FURTHER SURPRISES
IT was the morning of our departure. Our princely host assigned a chauffeur to drive us in the Royal Mercedes to the Danube ferry. I was like a horse smelling its home stables. In three or four days’ time we would be back in Baker Street. We would look down at the bright glint of straw adrift across the street, sniffing the perfume of coffee, the savour of bacon and sausages. We would once again be enveloped in an endless rumble of commissariat wagons rattling like plague-carts, the soul of London, the great ground-bass of London awake, as the poetic American traveller Madox Hueffer put it to me.
I followed the hotel porter down with our boxes, reflecting on the rhythm of our cases, dimly discerning certain dominant harmonies. Each was a play in three acts, the first with the freshness of the first raindrops of the Monsoon, our dinner at Simpson’s Grand Cigar Divan; the second dark, sumptuous and violent, the Prince’s fairy-tale palace, the murder, the vampire-ridden forests of Mount Vitosh. Now we would take our bow and glide out silently, in the English fashion, like the calm of a great ocean following the storm.
At the Palace, we climbed the Red Staircase for the last time. Sir Penderel Moon was waiting in an ante-chamber. He greeted us warmly. ‘Mr Holmes, and you too, Dr Watson, I must thank you both from the bottom of my heart over the Barrington matter. You have solved a despicable crime.’
‘Will you be asking Her Majesty’s Government to make a formal protest?’ I enquired. ‘The Prince seems to have been deeply implicated in Julia’s murder. Regardless of her subterfuge, she was a British citizen.’
The Legate’s cheery smile froze. ‘Dr. Watson!’ he returned with a horrified look. ‘Would you grant Kalchoff in death his greatest wish in life - to drive the Prince into the arms of the Hun?’ He shook his head vehemently. ‘It is vital the matter is left to settle quietly and discreetly. In all Europe Great Britain has no ally, and it may be doubted if she even has a friend. We have no need to add more hatred. Her Majesty’s Government intends to make no protestation regarding the murder.’
Realising how taken aback I was by his words, in a calmer but still-urgent tone he went on, ‘You must forgive me. I am not here to wish you God-speed but to inform you that Downing Street begs you to tell nobody of these events. To make them public would deeply embarrass and undermine the Prince. Imagine your charge being laid before the Cabinets of the Great Powers. In common manhood they would feel obliged to take the matter up. It would set in motion a very active press-service throughout Europe and beyond. From an excess of pique, the Prince might well forge an alliance with the Kaiser and the Sublime Porte. The Balkans are poorly provided with roads and means of communications. The Bulgarian railway tracks would offer a most efficient link between the two Empires, to great military and commercial value. It would be gravely to the detriment of peace in our time.’
He shook his head. ‘No! And again no! Singular chance put in your way a most whimsical problem. Its solution must be your only reward. Captain Barrington will disappear for ever, the case never resolved. He will become a Balkan legend, sighted on moonlight nights on the slopes of Mount Vitosh, an Englishman in full dress uniform, riding a great charger, bearing who knows what message from the nether regions. If you weaken Ferdinand by implying he condoned, even instigated the murder - above all, that the murdered husband of a woman long rumoured to be the object of desire by the Knyaz himself turned out to be female, a female whose wondrous mustachios were a deliberate copy of the Prince’s - why, the whole of Europe would laugh themselves silly! Under the avalanche of mockery and scorn, the Russian Tsar may well seize the opportunity to send his armies across the Danube and replace Prince Ferdinand with a Grand Duke of his own choosing. Soon the summer grass will be growing fast, the Tsar’s cavalry would grow fat on its way to burn the Palace to a cinder. Dr. Watson, you are a military man. Look in the direction of the Danube with a telescope. Even from here you will see a hundred heliographs and a thousand observation-balloons winking and glinting in the evening sky. Precisely how long could Ferdinand’s light field-batteries hold out against five Divisions of Cossack irregulars, each mounted rifleman equipped with three of the most modern magazine-rifles, and backed by the heaviest field-guns yet built?’
The Legate stretched out his hands. ‘To you both must accrue the satisfaction of knowing you have solved a despicable crime and that the perpetrator is dead. I repeat, for the sake of peace in our time, you must never repeat a word of this to anyone. Never.’
He broke off to stare hard at me. ‘Dr. Watson, you can achieve great effect through your pen. You may rightly feel all Europe should ring with your comrade’s name, that Mr. Holmes should be ankle-deep with congratulatory telegrams. May I have your - ’
‘I give you my word,’ I conceded reluctantly.
‘No reference to the matter at all, either spoken or in writing?’
‘I have pledged my word.’
At that moment the Prince arrived.
Sir Penderel lowered his voice, ‘Unless of course the fellow loses his throne.’
Ferdinand was beautifully attired in a shimmering gold tunic, black breeches, and a large black beret surmounted by a lightly jewelled gold aigrette. In his right hand he carried the sword stick like a baton. ‘I designed this uniform myself,’ he explained with a hint of self-mockery. ‘I have given myself a promotion. Yes, Dr. Watson, we Balkan Princes can do that sort of thing. Enough of being just a General. As from today, I am the first Bulgarian Field Marshal in the history of the world.’
The four of us walked down the grand staircase towards our waiting vehicle.
‘You will be safer crossing my country by road rather than rail,’ Ferdinand said. ‘The Bulgarian railways are heavily supported by assassins and spies without number wandering back and forth between Vienna and Stamboul like souls adrift in Dante’s Inferno, l sol tace. My driver will take you to the ferry-boat and see you across the Danube in time to catch the Orient Express to Paris. My private carriages will again be at your disposal. Gentlemen, I cannot exaggerate the pleasure I have had from your presence in my country. I hope this will not be the last visit you make.’ He added with a mischievous smile, ‘I shall have to think up more plots to get you here.’
From slightly behind me, Holmes’s hand came forward, stretching towards our host. It held a telegram. The Prince took the envelope, removed the slip of paper, and held it out in the sunlight to read. He looked at Holmes sharply, his eyes wide, as though a stab of fear was passing through him. Then, just as suddenly, his face broke into a grin of delight.
‘Mr. Sherlock Holmes,’ the Prince continued, thrusting the telegram back into my comrade’s waiting hand, ‘not for nothing are you known as the Baker Street Demon. Your skill has exceeded all that I have heard of it. You are indeed the master.’
Holmes returned the telegram to a pocket in his Poshteen Long Coat and acknowledged the compliment with a slight nod. We turned and stepped away. Even before we reached the vehicle the Prince bent his face into his hands, wracked by a burst of unstoppable laughter, then, regaining his full height and a solemn expression, he raised a hand in a military salute.