‘Holmes,’ I exclaimed, ‘the marionette show - ’
‘Rózsika and Zorka. One and the same.’
I cast my mind back to the dark, silent creature observing us from afar at the Café Bollwerk.
‘Therefore the marionette play- ’ I began.
‘Staged by Mileva’s sister.’
‘So it must have been Rózsika at the haunted house!’
‘Without doubt, one and the same. I too can make no sense of it, Watson. Why would Rózsika-cum-Zorka want us to know how her infant daughter died? What does it matter? Why would she send those notes to the Rector? What could it possibly have to do with Einstein?’
We had hardly settled ourselves at the river when with a loud cry Holmes struck himself across the forehead.
‘Of course - of course, Watson! You and I are the most absolute fools in Europe! What blunderers we have been!’
‘Steady, Holmes,’ I protested. ‘Perhaps you could enlighten me as to...’
‘The marionette, my dear fellow, the marionette! The mother. The one hovering above the cradle!’
‘What about her?’
‘The orthopaedic shoe. Which foot was it on, the right or the left?’
‘The left.’
‘Precisely! Every detail of the plot was exact, right down to the displacement of which hip. Answer me this,’ Holmes commanded, ‘when you observed Rózsika at the Café Bollwerk, she rested on her deformed foot, is it not so?’
‘As would one with such an affliction,’ I affirmed.
‘Which foot - think hard, my friend! Remember, she was facing us.’
‘The right foot, Holmes. Definitely her right foot.’
‘You are certain? It is of the utmost importance.’
‘No doubt whatsoever, my dear fellow. I am a medical man. I took particular note because this affliction strikes mostly at the other hip.’
‘So as the puppet wore the shoe on her left foot, Watson- ?’
I stared at my companion in the uttermost astonishment. I stammered, ‘The puppeteer was telling us the infant was not Rózsika’s child after all. She was - ’
‘Mileva’s. That is precisely what the puppeteer was telling us. At the time I thought the shoe had been placed on the left foot at random but it was not so.’
‘And therefore the father is - ’
‘Who else but the one Mileva gave shirts to.’
‘Einstein!’ I cried out. ‘Lieserl was Einstein’s daughter!’
Back in the Vaskrsenja Hristova Monastery, Holmes spoke.
‘Once more I need you to remind me. What was it Besso said about Mileva when we met at the Bollwerk Café, something about a dramatic change? You were scribbling away at the time. The exact words, please.’
I pulled out my note-book and flicked back through the pages.
‘Besso said “Quite suddenly her mood changed - I can’t explain it any other way than that she stopped smiling. One day she was a lively person - the next she was visibly distraught”. He went on to say, “Something must have happened between Mileva and Albert”.’
‘And when did Besso say that change occurred?’ asked Holmes.
‘Around September 1903.’
‘The skeleton, Watson. When do you estimate the little girl was placed in the ground?’
‘About that very time - within a few weeks either way,’ I replied.
‘The military puppet represented Mileva’s father. He was once a soldier. The moment Mileva heard of her child’s death she knew.’
‘She knew what?’
‘That it was her father and he could only have carried out Lieserl’s murder with Einstein’s agreement.’
‘Holmes,’ I said, brimming with anger, ‘we must set off immediately. We must reveal this at once to the Rector and Professor Sobel. For Einstein to condone, perhaps incite the killing of his baby girl, even one with a badly-damaged brain -the wretch deserves whatever punishment he’s due.’
Chapter XI
We Meet Father Florus
The monks were up and about by the time I went for breakfast in the simple refectory. Despite my keenness to return to Berne there was an undertaking to fulfil. We had to deliver Miss Durham’s gifts to Father Florus at the Church of Our Lady Among The Rocks. Archimandrite Nikanor greeted me. I explained we were postponing our fishing in favour of a visit to Father Florus. A kavass, a Serbian guide, was summoned to escort us. The Archimandrite led us though a little stone-paved room hung with portraits of the Czar and Czaritsa of Russia out to the start of a well-marked footpath among wild pomegranates. Our kavass led off, a heavy lantern swinging from his hand in case darkness overtook us on our return.
Away from the monastery any semblance of a road capable of supporting a cart ended abruptly. All around was wild, untouched rock, the scent of cistus and thyme on the hill-sides. Shrub oak jutted up among outcrops. Occasional abrupt descents left us slithering and sliding down the sides of stony ravines. Now and then a small flock of sheep pressed past us, hurrying to fresh pastures, driven by little girls with eyebrows blackened, their hair dyed a red as fierce as the bright crimson of the local rams.
Our pace slowed as the altitude increased. Now and then a palisaded village came into view. On patches given over to vegetables, bent figures pushed potatoes, turnips, onions and garlic into the well-prepared soil. At one point we stopped to resupply our water from an artesian well sited by a moving fringe of dogs and crude lean-to toilets. Our kavass told us that in times of danger the villagers took refuge in the most inaccessible gorges.
From above us came the first low growl of a storm. ‘Thunder,’ I called ahead to Holmes’s back.
‘Evidently,’ he replied over his shoulder.
To take my attention off my aching legs my mind returned to fishing. I thought about the time when aged twelve I went for my first night-fishing. I made a great deal of noise stumbling around and fell down, wrenching a shoulder, and never caught a thing.
Mycroft had sent us the most wonderful fishing tackle. During the short time on the Tisza, the Hardy Perfect reel and Mr. W. Senior’s Red Spinners had proved themselves. I needed more time to try out the favourite chub-fly of the late Mr. Francis, a complicated matter of grilse size, silver tinsel, and a tail of white kid glove or wash leather. Cheered by these happy reflections I returned to the present. Holmes had taken the lead, maintaining a relentless pace up the ever-steepening slope. We passed through the ruins of an ancient forum. Green acanthus flourished between the stony leaves of fallen Corinthian capitals. It was now noon. Our guide pointed to a second stony track round the hillside. A ridge of rocks ended in a sheer cliff overlooking a stone-strewn slope.
‘You are there,’ he said. ‘Pass between those,’ he continued, pointing at two immense boulders. ‘You will find the Father beyond them.’
We squeezed between the boulder sand spied a tall figure in the tattered black cassock of a priest. He was aged between thirty-five and forty. Father Florus stepped forward to welcome us.
‘Miss Durham sent word you would be coming. I watched you all the way across the plain in case you had an encounter with the Veele. In South-Slavic mythology the Veele are fairy-like spirits.’
He recounted how the Veele live in the wilderness and sometimes in the clouds, spirits of women who had been frivolous in their lifetimes and now float between the here and the afterlife. They appear as swans, snakes, horses, falcons or wolves, ‘but usually as beautiful maidens, naked or dressed in white with long flowing hair’. The priest sighed.
‘The voices of the Veele are beautiful. One who hears them loses all thoughts of food, drink or sleep. However,’ he continued, smiling, ‘despite their feminine charms the Veele are fierce warriors. The earth is said to shake when they do battle.’