and so on.’
He put a hand across his face, peering at me through his fingers. ‘Veiled women with enchanting eyes; men in jackets of crimson velvet embroidered with gold or silver, riding spirited Arab steeds whose hooves strike sparks on the kaldrmi. Bazaars the equal of Baghdad’s. Abracadabra! You will be able to regale your readers with adventures and discoveries as picturesque as the One Thousand And One Nights.’
I gestured at his attire. ‘But, I beg you, how were you able to - ?’
‘ - adopt the disguise of another Royal visitor of yours? My dear Dr. Watson, I do not just read your chronicles, I devour them like the bear fishing in a river’s rapids, sinking its teeth into a writhing salmon. I learn your stories by rote, word for word. They are issued as a text-book to the Bulgarian police-force. However, I assure you that on this occasion you will not be required to regain an unseemly picture of me and the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory, such as the photograph you refer to in A Scandal in Bohemia.’
Holmes half opened his lids and glanced across at our visitor. ‘You say you require our services - ?’ He broke off, reaching for his briar pipe.
Our strange visitor stretched beneath his cloak and withdrew a heavy chamois leather bag. He let it drop on the table.
‘This bag contains exactly three hundred pounds in sovereigns and seven hundred in notes,’ he said, ‘plus a few dozen Bulgarian gold 100 leva bearing my head - for your expenses in my country. Accept this as a mark of my esteem.’
He added, ‘You would not expect the Prince Regnant of Bulgaria to pay you any less than the King of Bohemia!’
I stared mesmerised at the bulky leather bag.
‘Your Royal Highness,’ I returned. ‘That is a very generous sum. We must assume the matter is of the highest importance.’
Our visitor seated himself on the sofa.
‘Important enough to bring a Prince out in such a gale,’ he answered.
Our visitor followed this with a backward glance at the door. He turned to Sherlock Holmes and murmured ‘Mr. Holmes, if I am to explain exactly why there is nothing of greater importance to the entire world than the commission I am about to proffer, I must presume I have your utmost assurance of confidentiality?’
Holmes reassured him with a ‘You may’; adding with a gesture in my direction, ‘Your Highness, I undertake nothing serious without my trusted comrade and biographer at my elbow.’
‘Importance to the entire world?’ I could not prevent myself asking.
The Prince’s forehead wrinkled at my incredulous response.
‘To the entire world,’ he repeated impatiently. ‘It concerns the loss of a centuries-old manuscript known as the Codex Zographensis, the most ancient and most sacred manuscript in the Old Bulgarian language. Since the news came that it has been taken from a hiding-place believed to be completely secure I have hardly had a wink of sleep.’
‘Let us hear more of this Codex Zographensis,’ Holmes broke in. ‘Why is its loss of such importance? Why would you come all the way from Sofia by way of Simpson’s Grand Cigar Divan to our quarters at this hour, and in the teeth of our famous weather?’
‘The Codex is an illuminated manuscript, a gospel-book more than a thousand years old,’ our guest related. ‘For many centuries it was believed lost or destroyed. Sixty years ago it was rediscovered at the Zograf Monastery on Mount Athos and found its way back to Bulgaria. From the moment of its return the Codex took on a mystical importance, a talisman of national destiny, like the Golden Throne of the Ashanti, or the Stone of Scone at the crowning of your British kings.’
Holmes had been listening with closed eyes to our visitor’s account, his legs stretched out in front of him. He opened his eyes.
‘Have you informed the Bulgarian police?’ he asked.
‘My dear Mr. Holmes, to inform the Bulgarian police must, in the shortest of runs, inform the world. This is what I particularly desire to avoid.’
My companion motioned towards the chamois leather bag.
‘You have told us why it is of such value to your country but as yet not the extreme urgency for its recovery.’
‘I can only hint at the reason,’ came the terse response.
‘A hint will suffice for now.’
‘It concerns my eldest son Boris.’
‘Of what age?’ Holmes probed.
‘He is six.’
‘Some more facts, please. Do we deduce there is some nationalistic or religious ceremony you wish your son to undergo which requires the presence of this manuscript?’
The Prince inclined his head.
‘I repeat, Mr. Holmes, it is absolutely vital the Codex is found and returned to the nation. Otherwise - ’ His voice fell away.
‘Your Royal Highness,’ I intervened, ‘if, as you say, you are acquainted with my chronicles you will know Sherlock Holmes - with the rare exception - is more intimately concerned with matters of murder, far removed from international politics.’
‘You need only concern yourselves with the recovery of the manuscript, a simple theft,’ came the reply. ‘You may leave the politics to me.’
He rose to his feet and stood looking down at us. In a quite agitated manner, he said, ‘Gentlemen, time is of the very essence. My country is surrounded by a plethora of warring nationalities and terrorist groups - Young Czechs, Italian Irridentisti, pan-Slavs, the andartai from Greece, the chetnitsi from Serbia. Worst of all, the Russian bear growls outside the cave, waiting to swallow me up. The fate of millions may depend on the swift recovery of this national treasure.’
My comrade asked, ‘The Tsar of Russia, you suspect he is behind this theft?’
For a moment our visitor wore a bitter look.
‘I see the Tsar behind everything,’ he responded fiercely, ‘as will you, I am sure. He wreaks his vengeance with the atrocity of the barbarian. The wretch has allocated a million francs for my assassination. Russian gold and Russian explosives are deployed against me everywhere. In his lair far away, barricaded by ice and eternal snow, guarded by four million soldiers who only ask to die for him, what has that monstrous sturgeon to fear?’
‘You think, sir, that unless this manuscript is recovered there will be war?’ I asked, even now unable to hide my incredulity.
‘When I say the fate of millions, Dr. Watson,’ the Prince replied, anger in his voice, ‘I do not mean simply the fate of a few peasants and a Balkan Prince. I mean entire civilisations and whole empires.’
He went on, ‘Thomas Cook’s on Regent Street will make all your arrangements for a swift departure. Once you get to Paris, my private carriages on the Orient Express will be at your disposal.’
Our visitor started towards the door.
‘Find your way to the Gare de Strasbourg by Friday evening, I beg of you,’ he continued. ‘Your tickets will be marked Sirkeci. That is the terminal by the Golden Horn. I request you switch to a Second Class carriage at Marchegg. There are eyes everywhere. Quit the train early, at Orşova on the Danube. Three hours after your arrival at Orşova a steamer, the Orient, of the Austrian Danube steamship company will dock. Board her. She will take you across the river to Svishtov. You will have arrived in my country. A highlight of your stay will be the International Sherlock Holmes Competition.’