“Captain, is the general public aware that the princess has been threatened?” Holmes inquired of Gent.
“We have done our best to keep the information close,” he replied in his coarse English. “However, I must assume there are rumors. Over half a dozen servants have quit the employ of the palace since this began.”
Holmes nodded. “I’ll need a list of their names and particulars.”
“Of course. Do you wish them all brought in for questioning?”
“Bit premature for that,” Holmes said. “But I’ll keep that possibility in mind.”
Holmes directed my attention to several key landmarks as the pungent wharf odor and rough cobblestones of Rotterdam quickly transformed into the pristine and well-manicured architecture of Den Haag, or The Hague, as we Englishmen call it. Noordeinde Palace, current home to the royal family, appeared on the terminus of a beautiful length of road, and rivaled the monumental splendor of any British royal’s accommodations. Huge arches of marble, fashioned in the style of the Romans, served to support the structure, while shielding the men and women who scurried below them from a cluster of gray-black clouds looming threateningly above.
The coach ground to a halt at the front gate, and as the good captain unlatched the door for Holmes, a young girl of perhaps twelve broke away from the shadows and dashed toward us, a bundle of something outstretched in one small hand. In an instant our guards cocked their rifles, ready to discharge, and the captain drew his saber and held its blade edge threateningly close to the child’s throat. Dropping the bundle, the child burst into tears and lamentation. Holmes knelt, and retrieved a bouquet of tulips wrapped in linen. Once the guns were down, the saber sheathed, and the apologies made, the child was led away.
“Certainly on edge,” Holmes whispered as Gent brought us up through the gates. At each twist and turn through the building, guards snapped to attention at our passing, their eyes fierce and weary from what Holmes surmised to be a lack of sleep, admitting he was well aware of the symptoms.
Our quarters were two adjoining rooms, the splendor and finery of which you can well imagine. We freshened ourselves and prepared for our audience with the queen. Gent reappeared soon after to convey us through the royal hall to the tearoom—a plush chamber unlike any other I’d spied as we passed, with fine European silk carpets, bookcases filled with well-worn volumes, a fireplace, crystal chandelier, and several comfortable chairs and settees. While we waited, the captain posting additional guards at each end of the hallway, Holmes and I silently observed the room.
“Quite the atmosphere for a haunting, eh, Holmes?”
“Indeed,” came a soft, commanding voice from behind us. We turned to face H.M. Emma of Waldek-Pyrmont, a raven-haired beauty of some thirty years, with rose cheeks and sensitive green eyes, adorned in a timeless gown that bespoke great wealth. She seemed to glide, not walk, as she came to stand before us.
“Forgive us if we do not bend our knees, Your Majesty,” Holmes said respectfully.
“No apologies,” she responded graciously, apparently pleased by the presence of Holmes. “You are subjects of an English queen. And now our honored guests.”
“Dankuwel.” Holmes kissed her hand. “Wij zijn hoogst vereerd.”
“U bent meer dan welkom, Mr. Holmes,” the queen replied. “Uw Nederlandsch es uitstekend.” Then, seamlessly switching to English, she added, “But do let us include your countryman, Mr. Wells. Sir, you are also quite welcome. And as you’ll soon see, my daughter is a tremendous admirer of your tale of The Chronic Argonaut. And as to our haunted atmosphere, I quite agree. Please sit.”
Holmes and I sat in opposing chairs. The queen stepped before the fireplace, leaving her back to us, as if the story she was about to relate had offered her a sudden chill.
“It was in this very room, gentlemen, that my daughter, Mina, was attacked. It was just past nightfall and she sat in the exact chair you’ve selected, Mr. Wells, reading alone by candlelight. The door was locked from the inside.”
Holmes nodded to himself, his gaze sweeping to survey the door.
“A noise caught her attention, and she looked up. She was no longer by herself. There was—the girl.”
“The girl?” I questioned, my interest piqued by the emphasis she placed on the phrase.
“Yes, Mr. Wells, that’s how we refer to this invading, and most assuredly malicious, intruder.”
“So I take it this girl has been sighted on more than one occasion?” Holmes asked.
The queen turned back to us, her face drained now of its color. “Seven sightings to date since the attack.”
“Hence the pervading suspiciousness of your guardsmen and a rather overzealous incident we witnessed at your gate involving a young girl,” Holmes noted.
“Have you seen the girl yourself?” I inquired.
She nodded, with evident trepidation. “Once, upon awaking in my bedchamber.”
“Will you describe her for us, please?”
The queen began to wring her hands. “Her appearance is that of a dark-haired young woman of perhaps sixteen years. Her skin is a bleached white, her eyes dark. She is gowned in white linen and she moves with unnatural grace. She . . .”
“Please, spare no detail,” Holmes directed at her pause. “I assure you there’s no cause to hold back anything, be it for reasons of disbelief or of discretion.”
The queen nodded and said, “In all honesty, she bears a striking resemblance to Mina herself . . .” then paused again.
Holmes signaled me to continue. “Please, Your Majesty, do go on,” I said.
The queen took a deep breath. “Mina quite innocently asked for her name and the girl refused to answer, simply wetting her lips and whispering Mina’s name back to her. Somehow Mina assumed she was in danger and began crying out, hurling books at the girl and racing about the room to keep her distance. Captain Gent heard Mina’s screams and broke the door in . . .”
“Carry on, Your Majesty. What did the captain see upon entering?”
“He found Mina unconscious, with bloodied marks about her throat and upon her nightgown,” she said bravely.
Holmes and I rose and went to the door. He examined the slot where the bolt would secure the frame. “This door has been forced, by several kicks, I assume. See there, the large heel indentations in the wood.”
My attention had been drawn elsewhere, to a singular stain—a handprint, visible only from a particular angle because of the near-matching color and texture of the wood, located about chest level upon the outside surface of the door. “Look at this, Holmes,” I said.
Holmes drew his magnifying lens as the queen came quickly to observe our findings. “It is most certainly blood,” he said.
“Seems as if this bloodied print was created upon arrival, not departure,” I said.
“Please place your hand upon the door for us to examine, Your Majesty,” Holmes requested, and she placed her own delicate hand near to the print.
Holmes lowered his lens. “It seems the size of a young girl’s hand. Certainly not made from the giant paw of your man Gent.”
“Could it be Mina’s print,” I suggested, “made after the attack?”
“But she was unconscious when Gent carried her from the room,” the queen said.
“How tall is Mina?” Holmes inquired.
“Barely one meter.”
“Just over three feet, not tall enough to have made this print. The uniformity of the blood mark clearly suggests a forward thrust made by a girl no taller than five foot two inches and no less than four foot nine inches.”
“Most curious,” I said. Then, turning to the queen, I asked, “Where did the blood on Mina come from? What was the wound?”
The queen looked to us with confusion. “There was no wound upon Mina that I found, though her neck was badly bruised. I bathed her myself.”