Chapter Fifty

They did give me a thick travelling rug before parking me in the formal great hall, under the eye of no fewer than four uniformed men. Minutes after I’d been placed there, a rush of traffic swept through, escorting a man with a doctor’s bag. A few minutes after that, a sleepy maid appeared to light the fireplace beside me, which might not have been necessary, given that it was August, except for the odd fact that the room had no roof.

Thirty minutes went by. My bruises developed, my stiffness grew. Voices went back and forth from somewhere overhead, occasionally that of Holmes. The new doctor came back down—the King, in his sickbed, had apparently not even heard the disruption.

I could only hope that my brief message had reached Holmes; before the guards dragged me away, I’d managed to shout a few brief words over my shoulder—in Arabic, a language no one in the place would understand: “Don’t let her learn what the doctor wanted!”

Then I was hauled down here, while he was ushered into a private room for a conversation with Her Majesty.

Typical of men.

I got laboriously to my feet. The guards bristled as they watched me make a circuit of the settee, my attempt to keep the bruises from turning to stone. I hobbled like an octogenarian around the sumptuous, befringed silk, then winced as I attempted to raise my gaze upward at the odd ceiling. Was it not curious, to have such an ornate hall standing open to the elements? But this time I noticed a partial roof, an ornate glass affair that covered approximately a third of the space—and realised simultaneously that this must be some kind of retractable ceiling that had either jammed or been left open, and that the sky overhead was no longer black.

I came to a halt before the inadequate fire, whose warmth at least brushed the backs of my legs as it flew upward. I edged slowly about like a roast on a spit, and was considering the possibility of getting to my knees, so I could toast my shoulders as well, when brisk footsteps came up the entrance stairway, followed by the click of heels as the guards snapped to attention. I shuffled myself around to see who it was.

A tall, slim, dark man in his fifties, trim of moustache and intense of gaze: this could only be the Queen’s advisor, friend, and purported lover, Prince Barbu Știrbey.

“Esti tu femeia—” he began, then caught himself. “Are you the woman they say was attacking the Queen?”

“I am the woman who was trying to save the Queen from attack. I believe you met my husband the other day. Mr Holmes?”

His eyes widened, and darted over my bruised and dishevelled figure before he turned on the nearest guard with a flood of crisply irate Roumanian. I unwrapped the wool from my shoulders and managed to drape it across the settee, then broke into his tirade.

“Sir, please, I should like to see that Her Majesty and the Princess Ileana are all right. And to speak to my husband.”

He shot a quick question at the terrified guard, who gave an equally brief reply. Prince Barbu then reached out for my elbow to guide me towards the stairs, a gesture that told me precisely how feeble I looked. I made an effort, and by the time we hit the second flight of stairs, I was moving like a fairly spry fifty-year-old.

“Sir, do you know if there is any news from Bran—about the girl who was taken?”

He made a sound of irritation and said, “Yes, of course, I should have told you immediately. There was a telephone message from the exchange in Brașov, that the police went to the hunting lodge and found the girl. She is quite safe. Although, if I understood the message, angry.”

“That sounds like her.” I found I was grinning, at the thought of a furious Gabi Stoica. “Does Ileana—does the Princess know?”

“She does. She was worried.”

“They are friends.”

My spirits were considerably lighter but that did not speed my pace any. However, our slow progress gave me time to take in the details—and detail there was in abundance. The palace itself—a castle in name only, despite the lorry-loads of decorative weapons and armour—was as new as its royal family. And the mind behind both the building and its decoration was of the “If one is good, seventeen is better” school. Every balustrade carved, every wall covered by gilt-framed paintings, every door the result of weeks of a craftsman’s labour. A Victorian sitting-room run amuck.

There could be no more different building from Castle Bran than this one.

Prince Barbu strode ahead of me, going straight to a door and flinging it open with the assurance of a man who lived here. He dropped to one knee in front of Queen Marie and raised her hand to his lips, a gesture that clearly came naturally to them both. He rose and turned to Ileana, who sat swollen-eyed but hugely relieved, her arms around the white dog on her lap. To her he gave a small bow, affectionate and slightly ironic. Her own tip of the head, despite the tension in her posture, held a similar trace of humour. He even patted the dog.

In less than five seconds, I knew all about the love and respect these three held for one another.

I moved over to Holmes, who looked askance at my swollen lip but said nothing.

“Does she know?” I murmured.

“What the doctor was after? I’ve not told her, and he wasn’t conscious when we left him. I do not know if he is awake yet. You heard that the Brașov police found Gabriela.”

“I did—but look, we have to—” I started, but Prince Barbu came into earshot then, turning to Holmes and asking if they might speak. I watched them go, praying that Holmes had got my message, that he agreed with it—and that anything could be done to carry it out.

I gave the Queen and her daughter an encouraging smile. “Your Majesty, I apologise that we could not keep Dr Mikó from disturbing your sleep with such a dreadful interruption. And Princess, congratulations on taking such decisive action. Bulldog Drummond would be proud.”

The girl’s pinched face relaxed, just a little. “You think so?”

“Absolutely! The only thing that will keep the Sapper from writing this up is the thought of offending your cousin’s dignity.”

She considered for a moment the likely reaction of George V, when it came to such royal shenanigans as a young nightgown-clad Princess bashing an intruder on the skull with a priceless antique, and broke into a grin of pure pleasure. “Someone ought to tell the Sapper about it, anyway.”

“If he does publish the story, he’ll have to get the dog right.”

She tightened her arms around the sleeping creature. “I’m so glad Gabi was found. But have you any idea what that man wanted? He’s the Bran doctor, isn’t he? I’ve seen him drive past in that extraordinary wagon of his.”

I could feel Queen Marie’s warning look, but I was ahead of her in my caution. “Princess, I’m sure that you know how irrational men can become when it comes to politics. I fear we will find that someone has turned the doctor’s mind, and driven him to this act of lunacy.”

“But how did he get in?” she demanded. This time, it was the guard near the door who straightened sharply at her question.

“I would imagine that a man with a medical bag is a common sight here these days, with your father ill? Well, we are all fortunate that this Bedlamite met his match in a small dog and a student of Bulldog Drummond. And you can be very certain that the guards have learned their lesson, and that it shall never happen again.”