I handed Father Florus a carp sent with the Archimandrite’s regards followed by the gifts from Edith Durham. He picked up the book of Verlaine’s poems and quoted from it: ‘Voici des fruits, des fleurs, des feuilles et des branches’.
He looked at me. ‘One needs little in this life,’ he said. ‘We have so short a time here.’
Father Florus turned towards his tiny domain, a bare stone wall standing against the hillside with a wooden cross at the top, and a two-roomed cottage with a patch of cultivated ground close by. With a further heavy rumble of thunder the heavens opened. The priest pointed at an opening in the mountain. ‘We can find shelter over there. In my little church,’ he said, leading the way.
The cave entrance was devoid of any attempt at architecture. Not a capital, pilaster, pediment, moulding, cornice, or porch broke the baldness. Tiny tawdry objects had been pushed into cracks in the rock. We entered a long narrow cavern, water-worn, with traces of stalactite deposit on the rough walls. Two settles served for pews for the scanty congregation. Torches burned brightly, lighting up a picture of Our Lady, their sap releasing an acrid but pleasant odour. A smaller cave opened on either side, making a ready-made nave and transept. The Father said,
‘The people say this church was built by the Hand of God. His hands in the wilderness. Si non è vero, è ben trovato - even if it’s not true it makes a good story. Is it not in the form of a cross?’
He motioned towards a bier covered with a black and gold cloth, and an illustration of the dead Christ. ‘Here, you see, I have made the Holy Sepulchre.’
The walls at the chancel end were covered with saints and angels, quaint and stiff, their archaic Byzantine forms in perfect keeping with the rough surroundings. Father Florus crossed himself, his chrysoprase ring catching the torch-light.
‘When I pray all alone in the silence, then holy things come to me, pictures, vous savez. I paint them here upon the wall.’
His otherwise serious face broke into a soft and pleasant expression. ‘My poor attempts at painting give pleasure to my people, and they understand. These are the last I have made. There is no paint left.’
‘Were you always here?’ my comrade enquired politely.
‘No. Once upon a time I was elsewhere.’
‘Novi-Sad?’ Holmes asked.
The priest shook his head.
‘No. Not Novi-Sad. Over there. Kać.’
He placed his hands on a silver bowl and an etched crystal goblet of water placed by the silver cross. ‘We are expecting a Christening ceremony here tomorrow,’ he said.
‘I’ve heard that in Serbia an infant receives the blessing 40 days after the birth, is that correct?’ Holmes asked.
The Father replied, ‘Yes, after 40 days- unless the baby is sickly and not expected to live.’
My comrade asked what information the church required on the forms to register the birth of a child.
‘Date and place of birth,’ came the reply. ‘Date and place of the christening. Parents’ names and ages. Name of the priest and godparents. Whether the child was a twin. The child’s placement in relation to any siblings - first, second and so on. And whether defective.’
He crossed himself. His hands touched together briefly as though making a prayer. ‘Or illegitimate. Most births in my region are.’
‘Now,’ he proclaimed, ‘we eat.’
We followed him from the cool of the cave. The hot touch of the outside air on our faces warned of a stifling heat to come. Around us the ground crepitated. Pointing at the cottage, hardly more than a hovel, the priest said, ‘I call this my Konacic. It means little palace.’
Father Florus refused to countenance our departure without a meal. ‘I’ve been expecting you, and besides, when shall I again see visitors from England?’ he exclaimed.
Appreciatively we gulped down burek, pastries made of filo dough filled with goat’s meat and cheese. The pastries were followed by stuffed cabbage, kidney beans and potatoes, grown in his well-kempt vegetable patch. After a last spoonful of sesame honey and a thick prune jam and most of the canned peaches we had carried with us, our host led us to a departure point a hundred yards down the slope towards the boulders. He pointed into the distance. ‘In two or three months those hills will be carpeted with blue periwinkles. You must return at that time.’
We said our goodbyes. The tall dark figure gave us the blessing. He turned towards the little chapel. When we had walked some distance, I looked back. There was no-one to be seen, only the low whitewashed wall, the tiny cottage and the great mountain.
Chapter XII
The Denouement Looms - We Return To Berne
Our return to the monastery was a race against the dark. The rough path led us into thick mists swirling down from the mountains. I could have done with a sturdy Shan pony. Any hope of an hour’s fishing on the Tisza dissipated by the minute. By the time we reached the monastery the candle in the kavass’s lantern had reached the full extent of the coiled spring on which it rested.
Before Holmes and I separated for the night I asked, ‘What have we learned today?’
‘Confirmation the infant Lieserl was born palsied,’ my comrade replied.
By sun-up Archimandrite Nikanor was dressed and bustling about. We breakfasted with the monks on carp and rudd. Before our departure we were led to the visitors’ book. Our host shook hands and murmured a blessing over us. In turn we presented him with the ferruled fishing rods, the lures and spinners. We commenced the long journey back to Switzerland, starting with a tarantass to Novi-Sad. The ferry transported us across the Danube for the next leg. We settled into a comfortable railway carriage. Holmes was silent, deep in the Baedeker. I fell into a reverie, mulling over our adventures of the past few weeks with their endless twists and turns and utterly improbable discoveries, the searches in large damp boxes in dim rooms, the watchful, puzzled clerks. The feeling we were forever being observed. The jolting carriages. Jelena’s song. Miss Durham’s explanation.
Budapest and Vienna came and went. I interrupted my companion. ‘Holmes, is it possible Mileva’s father carried out the killing without Einstein’s knowledge? After all, he would want to free his daughter from - ’
‘Impossible,’ Holmes broke in emphatically. ‘The infant was blessed on the first day of her life, not the customary fortieth day. Einstein would have been informed. The lack of christening records, the lack of a birth certificate. The complete silence. From the moment of that blessing he and Miloš began to hatch a plan to put Lieserl out of her - and their - misery. The mystery is why they waited so long. I can only presume Mileva - and Zorka - put up a fight.’
‘And what of Mileva? Did she finally consent?’
‘No. It was a fait accompli. It would have been a terrible shock. Besso said how she lost her happy temperament around September 1903.’
I fell silent, ruminating to the chug of the steam engine. A railway attendant opened our compartment door. We would be in Zurich in ten minutes. We changed trains. We were on the last lap. The denouement lay only hours ahead.
In Berne, we called the university from our hotel. Professor Sobel insisted we take a cab to the campus immediately. He sounded beside himself with excitement. When we entered his office, he jumped to his feet, bristling with anticipation.