‘And how did you respond?’ I asked.
‘In the finest traditions of the Foreign Office. I prevaricated. The cure would be worse than the ill. Whichever Royal House agreed to give him their daughter’s hand would immediately encounter the overwhelming force of St. Petersburg’s enmity.’
In the same serious tone he continued, ‘The outside world considers Bulgaria a suitable subject for light operetta, a tiny State between the Danube and the Balkans, where the diplomatic activity of the Capitals of the Powers reaches its ruler muffled as by a deep blanket of snow. The reality is otherwise. The Russians present a most imminent and pressing danger. The Tsar aspires to place one of his Grand Dukes in the Palace of Sofia and make Bulgaria a Russian cats-paw where not a mouse would stir in the Balkans without his permission.’
He added, ‘The Power most interested in checking Russian expansion is England. Mr. Holmes, if by the aid of the powers which you are said to possess you can find the Codex you will have deserved well of your country. As Her Majesty’s Legate, I see a European Prince and future Bulgarian Tsar whose survival affords us the best chance of preventing a terrible calamity, a great war which could stretch from Moscow to the Pyrenees, from the North Sea to Palermo, a war in which tens of millions might die. I could not imagine a greater misfortune for the world than that this affair should end in your failure.’
In the distance a large ferry-boat chugged heavily towards us from the Bulgarian shore.
We turned and began to move towards the waiting coach. Sir Penderel brought us to a halt some yards short of our conveyance with the words, ‘I would appreciate it if you will join me in a few days’ time for a Royal Command performance of Salomé at the Royal Alhambra. I’m told it will be the first-ever performance in English. As it’s Oscar Wilde, no doubt it will shock - but our louche Prince rarely misses the chance to be shocking.’
The diplomat reached out and shook our hands. ‘A last word on Ferdinand. Like all opportunists he is inspired solely by regard for his personal interests. He pursues the politique de bascule. He coquettes with one Power, then another. You will find in him a great actor. He reinvents himself every time he jumps out of bed. He changes masks on the instant. He can be the polite, generous, debonair, sarcastic homme du monde, all smiles and amiability. That is his face to you. Or he can turn into a wily politician, his face to me. Or he may manifest himself as the near-tragic tyrant of a mysterious country, the easily offended ruler whose every susceptibility must be respected. That is his face to the Capitals of Europe.’
He added, ‘There is one thing which unites all these princely faces - ’
‘Which is?’ I asked.
‘A complete lack of sincerity.’
We clambered into the carriage. Sir Penderel stepped back. ‘Rooms have been reserved for you at the Hotel Panachoff,’ he called out. ‘When you set off in search of the Codex you will leave behind a Capital in fear. Each time the Prince journeys out of Sofia someone has their throat cut. Speculation is rife over which of the Prince’s enemies will be murdered this time. A final request: when we are introduced at the Palace please act as though we were meeting for the first time.’
‘You may rely on us,’ I responded at once.
Chapter VII
IN WHICH WE ARRIVE AT THE ROYAL PALACE
THE Orient raised the Bulgarian tricolour of white, green and red and blasted its horn. We navigated the Iron Gates. The paddle-wheel churned in the milk-coffee waters and crossed to the steep right bank of the Danube, delayed a little by avoiding an immense raft of logs floating lazily downstream on its way to Black Sea, chaperoned by the inhabitants of ten or twelve huts on the roof. Ashore, a waiting Royal chauffeur handed us his card, ‘Revitsky, coachman to H.R.H. Prince Ferdinand of Bulgaria’.
We embarked on the last leg of our journey. Cucumbers, tomatoes, cabbage, and peppers grew in neatly-tended vegetable plots. Storks nested on the roofs of monasteries, flapping their wings, their long, yellow beaks clacking as we drove past. A whiff of wood-smoke wafted in from the silent landscape, the most wonderful smell in all the world. In my somnolent state I dreamed of Delhi and the lean gun-horses streaking across mud hurdles at steeplechase exercise. I was transported back to the small villages of India when the twilight came and deepened into penumbra and a blue mist rose up from the fields, and, oddly, to the sweet-sour smell of the wraps of breast-feeding peasant women.
Several hours later Sofia hove into view. We came first to small manufactories of woollen cloths, linen and cotton stuffs, paper, soap, potash, copper and iron ware. Our tyres threw up a thousand smells. Nearer the centre the vehicle threaded its way through narrow streets, planks or logs laid on each side for foot-passengers.
We arrived at the Palace. The Bulgarian flag fluttered on a high mast alongside the Royal pennant. Except for the Taj Mahal it was the most beautiful building I had ever seen. The tall windows were framed by cretonne curtains which swung in the breeze. At dusk lights burned in every room to keep away the shadows, a hundred glass panes sparkling like the windows of the Palais Royal. Wide terraces fell away, with beds of scarlet geraniums lined with white oleanders and Judas-trees, dotted with naiads, dryads, nymphs and satyrs, and bronze deer from Herculanum. The side facing the terraces was surmounted by a pediment representing a boar hunt. Swallows by the hundreds swooped and soared out of nests along the cornices. Embroidered parterres spread out like tapestries, overlooking an immense lake which glinted like a sapphire, with richly caparisoned caïques circling to and fro across its black surface. All night the gardens and orangerie were illuminated by electric cars hidden in thickets.
At the sight of our vehicle, a company of the Prince’s bodyguards commanded by a Major scrambled out from shaded spots to take up positions on every step of the broad stairway. They were resplendent in silver-braided scarlet uniforms with grey astrakhan caps and eagles’ feathers held in jewelled clasps. Watching them stood a five-foot, long-legged grey sarus, almost motionless except for the slight quiver of its scarlet head and eighteen-inch-long, bayonet-like beak.
Our driver dropped us at the bottom of the Red Staircase, an exact copy of the gateway into the Kremlin’s Palace of Facets where 400 years earlier Ivan the Terrible killed a messenger who brought him bad news. To one side, awaiting transportation to the kitchens, stood a pyramid of pomegranates, pineapples and Cassaba-melons.
We walked up the fifty-eight steps, receiving salutes. Above us, house-servants moved slowly back and forth across the entrance hall spraying essence of pine. A manservant invited us to dip our fingers in a holy-water stoop filled with violets. As I did so, I looked up at Holmes. With the Poshteen Long Coat open I could see his Accurate gold watch. As far as I knew, the watch and its Double Albert chain, together with a battered escritoire, two or three tie-pins and a snuffbox of old gold were the only heirlooms Holmes possessed. He caught my eye. A smile of amused anticipation flickered across his mouth. ‘We must take particular care with our manners, Watson,’ he murmured. ‘There’s not a spittoon in sight.’
We were guided to a large, refectory-like chamber, entering upon a scene so fantastic it could have been the residue of a tableau at Versailles. The floor jutted out over a terrace, giving the impression we floated in mid-air over a white sea. Every tone of red and blue mingled with gold. Cadets lined the walls, each dressed in a uniform of Albanian-Turkish appearance, with an embroidered scarlet tunic, and wide, multi-coloured silk cummerbund out of which stuck the handle of a yataghan, atop ample loose scarlet drawers.