Chapter Seventeen
Our interrogation of the priest was broken up by his wife, coming to take us in, despite our protests, for an early luncheon, since the Father had broken his fast at dawn. As it was not even midday, I anticipated light snacks meant to sustain until the dinner hour. Instead, we were ushered in to a working man’s primary meal.
It started with a small glass of tuica, the eye-blinkingly powerful plum brandy that Roumanians take before every meal. On top of that went soup and cabbage rolls and the local version of polenta called mamaliga and a chicken gone red with paprika, and halfway through it I could see why the good Father put in the hours of physical work in his garden. When we escaped at last, I was all but comatose with the combination of sleeplessness, slivovitz, and stodge. I staggered up the hill, blinking owlishly at the guards, the butler, and the housemaid as I made an unerring line for my bed, only dimly aware of Holmes giving instructions that we intended to immerse ourselves in quiet study and were not to be disturbed until we called.
I passed out, face-down on the covers.
Voices. My face pressed against bedclothes. I had at least managed to take off my spectacles before collapsing, then. Good. It was always inconvenient to re-shape the frames.
Unwillingly, I shifted, then dragged myself upright. Stockinged feet—so I’d got my shoes off, too, it seemed.
My ears finally got a message through to my brain: someone was bumping and banging about in the next room. I had been married to the man long enough to recognise the sounds of irritation, and when I went to look, indeed, there was Holmes, on his feet, not napping.
I yawned. “Did I hear voices? What time—heavens, it’s barely 1:30, I only lay down at one.”
Finally, my eyes joined my ears: he was yanking clothes from his drawers and shoving them with his customary brusque neatness into a valise.
“Are you going somewhere, Holmes?”
Walking past me to the bath-room, he thrust an envelope into my hand.
FAMILY FRIENDS AT ATHENEE PALACE BUCHAREST STOP. URGENT BUSINESS DEALINGS YOUR PRESENCE NEEDED STOP. BROTHER M
I sighed, folding the telegram back into its envelope as he came through with shaving kit and tooth-brush. “Holmes, you specifically told me that our presence in Roumania had nothing to do with Mycroft.”
“No, I said that I was already here investigating matters when he wrote, urging me to assist the Queen. It would appear that he now has what he judges pertinent information.”
“About what? Vampires and graveyard voices?”
“About the political situation.”
“I should have known that politics would rear its ugly head.”
“We both acknowledged the possibility from the start, although as you made it clear that you were not interested in politics, I have not required you to consider that aspect.” He jammed the shaving kit into the valise with more emphasis than was required.
“Holmes, I’m sorry, you are absolutely right. The Bolsheviks killed her cousin’s entire family, and if they’re after this branch as well, we need to know. Give me a minute to wash my face and pack a bag, I’ll come with you.”
“That is not necessary. There is plenty for you to do here in Bran.”
“Such as what? Interview Vera’s brother—the Queen’s driver?”
“I had just finished doing so when Florescu waylaid me with that telegram. The young man knows nothing about Andrei Costea’s death other than that a coffin arrived in the last weeks of 1916, with the young soldier’s name on it. So far as he remembers, no one looked inside.”
“Another dead end, then. So to speak.” He did not reply, merely scowled at the bag before yanking the top shut and reaching for the buckle. I had to protest. “Holmes, come now, sulking is beneath you.”
He looked up in surprise. “You misunderstood, Russell. My irritation is not with you, but with my brother. My instincts are that the answer to our mystery lies here in Bran, not in the capital city. But it would be irresponsible to push away the very real threat of international intrigue simply because it does not fit into some highly incomplete data. We need that information; we cannot expect Mycroft to send his informants here; therefore, I must go to them. I see no reason for both of us to go. I shall return tomorrow on the earliest possible train. See what you can find in the meantime. And if you need me before that, wire the Athenee. I will steal a motor, if I have to, and be here before noon.”
He stepped to the wardrobe to fetch his tightly furled umbrella, picked up the bag, and left.
But as he went past me, he paused to rest his lips in a brief and apologetic kiss against the side of my head.