Chapter Twenty-five

Holmes finished his meal while interrogating the fake Bolshevik about his boss—the man Mycroft had intended him to see—but it was clear that Tovarisch Dalca had never expressed any interest in a rural Transylvanian village. When the pudding course arrived, Holmes rose to thread his way out of the crowded terrace of tables filled with polyglot diners out to enjoy the first cool breath of the day. On the pavement outside, a quartet of Italians were descending from a white-and-gilt landau pulled by two geldings the colour of summer honey. He lit a cigarette, and walked a meandering route back to the Athenee Palace.

There he settled into the English Bar, scandalising the waiter with a request for Turkish coffee. The man was somewhat mollified when he followed that up with an order for the most expensive whisky he could see on the shelf.

An hour later, the third man on Mycroft’s list came in.

Middle thirties, good clothes, clean finger-nails, wire-rimmed glasses. He was shaved, but overdue for a haircut. Probably habitual. English, without a doubt. Educated, certainly. And just as clearly, a regular in the Athenee’s English Bar, watering hole for the high-ranking, the influential, and the stinking rich, foreign or domestic. The bar-man tucked the newcomer into a table both prominent and discreet. When the young man drew out a small note-book and silver pencil, Holmes was certain.

The Roumania correspondent for The Times.

The bar-man brought the man a glass of dark amber liquid with a small carafe of water. Holmes watched from the side of his eyes as the correspondent took a mouthful, savouring it before he swallowed, then pouring in a splash of the water.

A figure appeared in the doorway, a man who had paused there twice in the past twenty minutes. This time he walked in, straight to the corner table, pulling out the other chair. He leaned forward onto his elbows and started talking. The bar-man was aware of the newcomer, and watched the table, but made no move to approach. Less than three minutes later, the conversation was over and the newcomer left. The correspondent picked up his pencil and wrote a few lines, then returned to his glass.

Ten minutes later, a similar scene took place. And five minutes after that, another, this time a woman.

When the chair cleared after her, Holmes picked up his glass and crossed the room.

“Mr Alan Broder?”

“Yes.” The man’s eyes studied Holmes, taking in the details of clothing and stance, much as Holmes had done for him when he came in.

Holmes smiled to himself and sat down. He reached deliberately into his breast pocket, pulled out his leather note-case, and took out an engraved card, laying it on the table face-down. He nodded towards the man’s propelling pencil.

“May I?”

A small gesture of the correspondent’s fingers—ink-stained, a smudge of type-writer ribbon.

Holmes printed a word and some numbers on the back of the white card. He returned the pencil, placed his forefinger on the card, and slid it across the table to Mr Broder.

“That is a telephone number, in London, where someone always knows where to reach me. At the end of this conversation, I may owe you a favour.”

Broder studied him some more, then pulled away his gaze and turned the card over to its engraved side. All it said was:

Sherlock Holmes

Broder tapped the card on the table two, three times, then got out his own wallet and put it inside. “I imagine most people, seeing that card, take it as a joke.”

“I do not give that card to many people, Mr Broder.”

“I can understand that. I met your brother, once. He…clarified the situation for me.”

“I imagine he did.”

“What can I do for you, Mr Holmes?”

“First, you can agree that you will not make use of this conversation, in any way. I am not here. You have not spoken with me, or learned anything from me.”

“I rather suspected as much. I agree.”

“Next you can tell me what you may have heard of any threat against Queen Marie.”

“Queen—” Broder’s face was a study: first alarm, then eagerness, followed by chagrin as he remembered that he could never have heard the question. “I knew I’d regret saying yes. What kind of a threat?”

“The actual threat was directed against her daughter, Ileana, but it would appear that the intention was to drive the Queen away from Castle Bran.”

“That old place up beyond Sinaia—on the edges of Transylvania?”

“Yes.”

“Why would anyone care? I saw it once, a year ago. It’s a wreck. There are castles all over, most of them far nicer than that one.”

“And yet, Bran is the place the Queen loves.”

“I know. One would almost—”

His mouth snapped shut, the newsman’s instinctive reaction to the sin of giving away information.

Holmes waited while the man considered his options, and the promise in his pocket. “One would almost think…?” he prompted.

“That she had reasons for keeping a hideaway,” Broder said. “Private reasons.”

“Are the rumours true, then? About the Queen and Prince Barbu Știrbey?”

“How should I know?”

Holmes let one eyebrow climb. Favours would only be owed for actual contributions.

Broder gave a crooked smile. “If so, they are discreet. And since the Queen is generally looked upon fondly, the people are not as eager for scandal as they would be for a less likeable person. I understand there has always been talk about her. However, I have to say that her first four children do resemble their father. Two sons, two daughters. And generally speaking, here as in England, once a line of succession is clearly established, questions are not asked.”

“The second son—Nicholas—is the King’s?”

Broder’s voice, low to begin with, fell still more. “The boy was born in 1903. If he is someone else’s it’s not Prince Barbu. As far as I know, they did not meet until the summer of 1907—although it’s hard to credit that, considering the size of the country. At any rate, there was a peasant uprising across Moldavia and into Wallachia. Thousands were killed, thousands more arrested. The government were terrified, but the farmers did have valid claims. Prince Barbu was among those who advised the King—this is the old King, Carol—that instead of turning the army loose on the revolt, perhaps he could extend a hand of friendship to them, and offer a few reforms. That is when the Prince and Marie are said to have met. And certainly, that was when they began to see something of each other.”

“And the girl Ileana…”

“Was born eighteen months later. January, 1909.”

“I see.”

“The Queen’s last child, an infant who died before the War, was said to be his. The Prince barely left the boy’s side during his illness, which would be remarkably attentive for a mere family friend. And yet, relations are amiable between him and the King, as they are between Marie and the Prince’s wife.”

“A façade?”

“If so, it’s an enduring one, and to all indications comfortable. Nadèje Știrbey is seen in the Queen’s company both with and without her husband present, and the two women seem remarkably affectionate for rivals. As for the King, he could easily avoid the Prince, yet he shows no reluctance to work or dine with him. The Prince’s official position is that of managing the royal estates, but his position in Roumanian society is high, his family has been prominent for centuries. Both King and Queen find him indispensable, when it comes to the smooth functioning of government. For a time, his house was in effect the centre of government, since it allowed the Queen to casually drop in for conversations with visiting dignitaries.”

“Yet you seemed to think that Prince Barbu was somehow related to a threat against Princess Ileana and driving the Queen from Bran Castle. Why?”

“Had you considered that the threat could be aimed at him? Look, the royal family lives in Sinaia much of the year. If they were, well, lovers, it would be impossible for them to meet either there or in Bucharest without coming to the attention of all the spies and half the gossips in Eastern Europe. But by road, in a fast car, it is less than three hours to Castle Bran, a remote spot entirely peopled by the Queen’s servants. By horse over the hills, I shouldn’t think it takes much longer. And Prince Barbu and the Queen both spend a lot of time on horseback.”

“What kind of motor does the Prince have?”

“Probably a Rolls. Don’t they all use a Rolls-Royce?”

“Even in the mountains?”

“You’re right, I did see him in something else one time, up in Sinaia. I noticed because he was driving himself—something that’s capable of more than ten miles an hour over those roads. A Citroën, I think it was.”

“Is it common knowledge that the Prince and the Queen employ Castle Bran for private meetings?”

Broder fiddled with his glass, and Holmes began to suspect that the man’s hesitation was due not to a journalist’s innate reluctance to give away hard-won information—or, not only because of it—but because of a respect for the people under scrutiny. On the other hand, there was the obligation of that telephone number…

“I was told of a joke, made at a dinner party a while ago. The sort of bitter jest that hides deep envy. No doubt variations of this one have been made for years, but things said in private are easy to deny, and easy for the targets to overlook. Not, however, when they appear in print. It seems a visiting photographer—a German-born Englishman—came through Roumania with his camera. As often happens here, he was invited to the royal palace and to a number of royal functions. The King sat for a photograph, the Queen motored with him to Bran. Both of them are generous with visitors—particularly those who have some audience in the outer world—and the Queen wrote a kind foreword to his travel memoir. Although she couldn’t possibly have read the book first.

“In between the fellow’s descriptions of exotic gipsies and romantic Carpathian vistas, the photographer describes a dinner with certain important men in Bucharest. These are men who, you understand, may have been slightly miffed about the failure of some business or social affair. At any rate, food was eaten and drinks were downed. Then one of them made a joking toast to Prince Barbu—as the ‘Prince Consort.’ And the others laughed.”

Holmes winced. It was a remarkably efficient taunt, implying a cuckold King, a Queen who wears the pants, and a Prince who was her true partner. “It’s a rare insult that drives a blade into three targets at once. The photographer could not have realised the weight of that joking title. He’d never have published it.”

“Certainly a born Englishman would not. And it did take some time for his memoir to make it across Europe—I heard a rumour that the Queen only saw a copy of it when she was in London this summer. Once it gets around, the man will find cool greetings from half the kingdoms in Europe.”

“So the love affair—”

“The possible love affair,” Broder put in.

“The purported affair is now public, and all parties realise it. Possibly including Princess Ileana. If this is the case, who would be driven by it into making threats, driving the Queen from Bran, and trying to ruin her reputation? Prince Barbu’s wife, perhaps?”

“Good Lord, no. Although I wouldn’t put it past the Crown Prince.”

“Prince Carol, yes. There’s trouble brewing there.”

“Even the Roumanians are getting tired of the scandals and irresponsibility, and the King and Queen have given him about all the free rein they can. Rumour has it that, now the Queen has returned, matters will come to a head—the book-makers are leaning towards their stripping Carol of the title and giving it to his little son. And Carol, who has always hated Prince Barbu and long been alienated from his mother, will no doubt see the two of them as siding against the King.”

“Would he make threats against his sister?”

“His sister? Which one?”

“The young one. Ileana.”

“The two of them have always got along fairly well. Although, he might, if he could use her against his mother in some way.”

“Which returns us to my original question: Are you aware of any overt and credible threats against Queen Marie?”

“Nothing open. And credible? Most of what I hear are grumbles, not open threats.”

“What about Prince Barbu? Not from him, but someone wishing to use him?”

“Știrbey? He’s from the wealthiest, most powerful family in the country. In partnership with the Queen, his authority is immense. And he seems quite happy with that. But I will admit, if I wanted things to change here—if I wanted to rid the country of its current King, his overly assertive wife, and an impossible Crown Prince—I’d want someone like Prince Barbu to offer the people instead. Stable, clever, able to move easily on the international scene, and a patriot to his core. Yes, he would do nicely.

“And to go back to your original question: I have not got wind of any overt threat against Queen Marie, but if I did, I might take a closer look at the people around Prince Barbu Știrbey.”