Chapter Fifty-one

Sherlock Holmes followed the Prince out of the Queen’s sitting-room and down a hall to a nearby room—a library, of a sort, although designed less for reading than to impress male friends with its solid expanse of leather spines. Prince Barbu pulled the doors shut in the face of the guard outside, then gestured Holmes to an armchair while he walked over to an elaborate drinks cabinet. He filled two glasses from a decanter of transparent liquid, bringing them back to the chairs. “I don’t know if it’s time for a drink or morning coffee, but I imagine the latter will arrive before long. In any event, I need this first.”

Holmes took a generous, medicinal swallow, relishing the travel of warmth down his throat. It was tuica, but with a rich complexity that made the others he’d drunk taste like paint stripper. He took another sip, then both men reached for tobacco. When the smoke was rising, the Prince flicked ash from the end of his cigarette.

“Tell me what happened.”

And Holmes did, from his arrival in Bran the previous evening, having accompanied the Queen to Sinaia, through tracing Russell to a country house on the other side of Brașov, to the motor-cycle chase through the mountains. He kept to the main points, but even without the details, coffee had been served and the palace was about its morning business before he finished.

“I did not see what happened with Russell after we arrived,” he ended. “Although I understand that she and Princess Ileana between them overcame the doctor. And I did see a revolver in his medical bag, afterwards.”

“Why were you not there?”

“One of us had to stay on the forecourt to distract the guards. Russell is quicker on her feet than I.”

“Although not fast enough to avoid the guards.”

“She’d done her job, and they were doing theirs. She saw no reason to hurt them.”

The Prince laughed; Holmes did not.

The Prince reached out to refresh their coffee cups, and sat back, considering. “This Bran doctor. He honestly imagines that he has a right to Castle Bran? He’s not simply a lunatic?”

“There does seem to be at least a fragile basis for his conviction that the family has a claim to the building. Inheriting his uncle’s money made it appear to be within his grasp—at least, until Russell and I began to throw barriers in his way. Tonight’s violence was a last, desperate act of fury and despair. No less dangerous for that, of course, but it was not what he planned at the start.”

“Is he mad?”

“I would call it madness. A psychiatrist might not.”

“I hate that he troubles the Queen, just now. There is too much on her mind as it is. The King. Their son. Ileana’s English school.”

Holmes studied the other man, running his hand over his hair, as if smoothing away his own discomfort. “Do you…that is to say, Sir—do you love her?”

The Prince looked startled at the abrupt question. However, he did not protest, or declare it inappropriate. Instead, he gave a little smile. “She is my Queen. I would give her my life. She, and her daughter.”

And Holmes nodded, as if this was answer enough. “I don’t know that self-sacrifice will be required of you, merely a degree of ethical flexibility. My wife believes that, were the Queen to learn of Dr Mikó’s…delusions, it would taint her affection for Bran and its people.”

After a moment, the Prince nodded. “It might. Not at first, but the thought would persist. She would find excuses to be elsewhere. Which would be a pity. Bran is the one place she can be herself.”

“I suggest you do not tell her. Don’t let Mikó have his say.”

“Sir, are you suggesting that I have the man…”

“Not killed. Merely pull his fangs. He was found outside the King’s rooms with a gun, after all. It would be easy enough to establish that his argument was with Ferdinand, rather than Marie. If he stands trial, it will come out—however, you may be in a position to find a doctor who will declare him mad. The poor fellow need not be hanged, or shot, merely put quietly away. The man could even be made quite comfortable, were the government to seize his considerable assets. He has no family, after all. But he must never communicate with the Queen or Princess Ileana. And you will need to be diligent that word of the man’s claim never gets out. In fact, if you can arrange a day or two delay from the police in their investigations, I shall see that any corroborating evidence disappears from his house. After that, even if a rumour does get out, it will look like nothing but a sad dream.”

The Prince eyed the man across from him, then stood. He held out his hand. Holmes rose, and took it.

“I regret,” the Prince said, “that I will not have the opportunity to know you better, you and your lady wife.”

“Sir, the sentiment is mutual.”