The Oriental Casebook Of Sherlock Holmes Part 3

His eyes examined Holmes intently, but he seemed to find nothing unusual. Holmes returned to his scholarly tasks, and he began to engage the pandits with regard to their historical translations. But as Wright had spoken, Holmes had registered Wright's every word, every intonation, every motion of his body.

"I was suddenly alive to presences so vicious, Watson, that instinct called forth the most acute reactions of the brain. Surely, now, the murderer of Rizzetti himself could not be far away, and my mind was already preparing for the inevitable encounter. I had pa.s.sed muster for the time being, but I had no illusions that, with longer contact, something, some small slip, some unconscious movement, would give me away."

At this moment, Holmes let forth a great sigh. His eyes looked into the distance as he recalled the events in that faraway land.

"Pray, continue, Holmes," I said, fearful that he would stop.

He rose from his seat and began pacing slowly back and forth in front of me as he spoke, his hands together behind his back. I watched him intently as he relived this strange adventure. His body became cat-like as he walked to and fro, the grace of his physical motions matching the logic of his narrative. A young woman appeared at the door, he said. It was Lucy Richardson. She informed Dr. Wright that her father wished to see him, and Wright left at once.

"And who is this gentleman?" she asked, referring to me but addressing her question to Shiv Shankar.

"'This is a very learned gentleman who is spending some time with us. He is Pandit Kaul, of Kashmir."

Holmes bowed.

"Ah, yes," she said, "my father told me that he had met you several days ago. Welcome. I have just arrived and would benefit from your knowledge. Perhaps you might join us for tea. I would so like to hear about your country, for I would like to visit there once my father's health improves. And perhaps I might learn about this country and its languages as well."

"I am at your service, Miss Richardson. I would be most happy to join you and provide whatever a.s.sistance you might desire."

"Please join us at four on the terrace," she said.

Holmes bowed again as she departed.

At tea that afternoon were Lucy and the Resident, whose health seemed to have improved somewhat. He talked warmly about his daughter and how happy he was that she could visit him. Holmes talked mostly about Kashmir, they about England, of which Holmes of course had to feign no firsthand knowledge. Dr. Wright appeared several times to check on Mr. Richardson. He seemed preoccupied and took little notice of Holmes's presence. Holmes continued to observe him closely, particularly his ministrations to Richardson, but he noticed nothing untoward. Richardson seemed stronger and in better health than when he first met him and appeared to be in no immediate danger.

"Miss Richardson at one point asked me to accompany her to an adjoining garden. We spoke for some time about my work, but several times she expressed great concern for her father's health. I told her that I would help in any way that I could, for I professed to have a knowledge of indigenous plant remedies and the diseases to which they related. Katmandu was filled with rare plants, I said, of both beneficent and deadly varieties."

As they returned to the veranda, it was already dusk, and night was about to fall. Miss Richardson went directly to where her father was seated. As she approached him, however, he sat up suddenly, a look of intense fear on his face visible in the twilight: "He's there! He's there! He's come back!"

He pointed towards the far end of the garden. Holmes looked there but saw nothing.

Richardson had gone white. His breath came in fast gasps, and Holmes feared that he might expire on the spot. Dr. Wright appeared from the Residence and quickly administered a potion that seemed to calm him almost at once.

"We'll have no more of that," said Wright. "If there is any more excitement here, I shall have to confine you to your room and to prohibit all visitors."

The Resident did not respond but seemed contrite. Several servants appeared and carried the sick man to his room. Turning to Holmes, Dr. Wright said, "I am sorry for the incident. The Resident is very ill and appears to be having hallucinations, but these are common with the severe fever that he suffers from."

Holmes nodded as if in sympathy, and said that it was time for him to depart. As he took his leave, Lucy Richardson turned and said, "Mr. Kaul, I wonder if you would allow me to benefit from your knowledge of the religion of the Hindoos. Tomorrow I plan a tour of the Shrine of the Sleeping Vishnu. Would it be presumptuous to ask if you might accompany me?"

"I would be most happy to do so," said Holmes.

He bowed to the Resident Surgeon and took his leave. A flicker of annoyance pa.s.sed over Wright's face as Holmes accepted Miss Richardson's invitation, but the doctor hid his emotions instantly. Holmes returned to the hotel.

"The mystery had continued to deepen. How had someone like Wright become a surgeon in the Residency? And where was the mastermind of it all, the murderer of Rizzetti? And what was the nature of the Resident's illness? And what of his hallucinations? Or had he seen something real? I decided at that moment to take my friend Gorashar into my confidence concerning the events that I had just witnessed. I asked him to make some discreet inquiries. Gorashar was disturbed by my account and by the implications of my questions, but he agreed to find the answers I needed at once. He also told me that many Nepalese were very disturbed by the rumours that they had heard concerning the appearance of ghostly apparitions in the Residence, for such appearances often were considered to be portents of impending disaster."

Holmes stopped his pacing. He sat down and fumbled in his slipper for his pipe and tobacco. He lit up, puffing slowly as the sweet aroma of his favourite mix began to fill the room. He sat lost in thought for a few moments.

The following morning he met Miss Richardson at the gate of the Residence. She was accompanied by one of the guards provided by the Nepalese government, and a maidservant. They must have appeared a strange couple, said Holmes-this beautiful young woman with an aging pandit-but they paid no attention to the curious looks they received along the way. It was one of those bright mornings in early February, he said, when the mist has burned off more quickly, and the sunshine is stronger, a definite prelude to the hot season that is to come. They began their walk to the Sleeping Vishnu, a shrine that lies at the very northern end of the Valley. The road is no more than a dirt path once one pa.s.ses a half mile or so from the Residence. About halfway, they decided to rest in a bamboo grove along the way known as the Bansbari. Lucy Richardson by now had asked Holmes much about Kashmir. He spoke for several minutes about that other Himalayan valley, and did reasonably well, he thought, for one who had never visited the place. He had prepared for far more trenchant questioning on the subject than Lucy Richardson's simple requests afforded, however. When he finished, she became quite pensive.

"I suppose that you will be returning quite soon?" she asked finally.

Holmes replied that he had no definite plans at the moment beyond the completion of his a.s.signment in Katmandu. He did not know when he would be returning home.

"I too am here for an indefinite stay. I fled England, Panditji, for I could no longer endure the situation that had come to pa.s.s in my mother's home. May I burden you with the tale?"

A terrible sadness had come over her face, and Holmes could see from it that she had no one else to whom she could turn. It was, of course, precisely what he had hoped, for he had suspected that part of the mystery lay in her family's history, particularly in that of her father.

"It would in no way burden me. I would be most happy to listen," he said.

Holmes's face reflected the eagerness with which he awaited the story that Lucy Richardson was to relate to him. I listened, transfixed by the story. It was almost as though London, our rooms, even I, had ceased to exist.

Lucy said that her early years were spent in India, in Indore, where her father had his first post. When he was appointed Resident in Nepal, she was twelve years old. She was as happy as a child could be, but because there were no schools it was decided that she should return to England. Her mother had also decided to return, for, though the subject was never discussed, Lucy sensed a growing estrangement between her mother and father. There was little talk between them, and though they never bickered in her presence, she often overheard heated exchanges between them from behind their bedroom door. Parting from her father was very difficult, for it was not clear when he would be able to visit England, or indeed when she would be able to return to Nepal, if ever.

"We left Nepal some months after our arrival. The journey to England was a sad one for me, and England soon became a dreary bore. We settled in my mother's home near Oxford, and I attended local schools until Mother decided that I should attend a boarding school near London. The school was a relief from my mother's constant overbearing presence, for it was very clear to both of us that we did not get along well. Holidays were more than enough time for us to spend together. As I grew older, I began to regard my mother with more sympathy than before, for I realised that she was a very lonely woman. Letters came regularly from my father directed to me instead of to her. All she received from him was a perfunctory note scrawled at the bottom, while the messages to me were filled with lively descriptions of Nepal and its people, and the exciting life that he seemed to lead. I was particularly envious of his travels outside the Katmandu Valley, which the Rana now permitted more frequently."

It was about a year ago, she said, that she began to notice a change in her mother. She seemed brighter and happier than Lucy had ever known her to be. And one night, she learned the reason. She had taken a lover, a Mr. Morrison, a gentleman who had been introduced to her by one of her very old friends, Ellen Maupertuis, a woman who had married a Dutch diplomat and was then living in Amsterdam. Her friend had met Morrison first on the island of Sumatra and had found him charming. He had travelled much and was said to run a business in Amsterdam which imported rare woods from the Dutch East Indies. Lucy's mother had invited him to dine with them occasionally and at the beginning Lucy rather liked him, even though she made clear to her mother that she thought her conduct was reprehensible. He was tall and handsome and possessed what Lucy came to recognise as an incredible intellect. He seemed to be particularly strong in mathematics, but he could discuss almost any subject intelligently. Her mother was entranced. There was little that Lucy could do, and little that she could argue with when her mother told her that she had learned that her father had taken a Sherpa woman from the eastern mountains of Nepal as his mistress "Upon my return home after my last year of school, I found that Mr. Morrison had moved into the house and was living with my mother. To the outside world, he was merely a boarder who lived in the guest cottage, a convenient pretense that satisfied local speculation and quieted much of the initial gossip. One day, he began to evince a great interest in Nepal and my father's work there. In explanation he pointed to a lifelong interest in geography and the Himalayas, which were still a terra incognita, as he called them, and speculated that he might expand his business to include rare Himalayan woods. Even though we had lived there for but a few months, he questioned us both incessantly, and seemed particularly interested in the city of Katmandu and its overall plan. He began making drawings of the streets and gullies of the city which he showed to us for correction. His questioning became almost brutal at times, and my initial feelings of warmth towards him immediately turned to dislike when I learned quite by accident that he had found Father's letters to me in my desk and had read them through. I was horrified at the intrusion into my privacy. When I confronted him with his disgusting conduct, he merely denied it, saying that he had taken the letters because my mother had wanted to re-read for him one of the notes to her from my father. My mother supported his explanation, which I knew in my heart to be untrue, and I found myself unable now to talk to my mother except about trivial matters."

One night, she said, just before retiring, she heard her mother and Morrison shouting at each other in the library. He had been questioning her closely concerning the Residence itself, its occupants, including the guards and the servants, and the arrangement of rooms, including the furniture. He also wanted to know exactly what the gardens were like. She heard her mother plead with him, saying that she could tell him no more, for she remembered nothing beyond what she had already told him. At this he lost his temper and began striking her. Lucy heard her pleas for mercy. She rushed to the door and banged on it, shouting at him. There was only silence. Mr. Morrison opened the door. Her mother was crying softly, her face bruised in several places. Morrison stood opposite me, his face calm, his cold grey eyes filled with an unholy satisfaction. She felt as though she was in the presence of evil incarnate. She rushed to her mother's side, and Morrison left for the guest cottage.

"My mother's bruises were horrible to see, but they proved not to be serious. Had Morrison and she been alone, however, I had no doubt that they would have been far worse. She said nothing to me until the following morning, when she said sadly that she was unworthy of him and that he had threatened to leave. I was overjoyed at his threat, but my mother, totally under his sway, said that she would do anything to please him and make him stay. That afternoon we learned that Morrison had indeed left the guest cottage with all his belongings, leaving no indication as to where he had gone. My mother was disconsolate, calling all known friends and acquaintances, but Morrison had disappeared, to where, no one knew. As the days pa.s.sed and Morrison did not return, my mother became embittered, her anger being addressed mostly towards me. It soon became apparent that the conflict between us would not resolve itself and that I would have to leave. After a dreadful argument in which my mother accused me of turning Morrison's love away from her, I decided on my departure. I had nowhere to go except to return to hmy father. I wrote him, saying that I was coming as fast as I could, and I took the first available pa.s.sage to Calcutta, making the difficult land journey from there with an escort sent by the Maharajah."

When Miss Richardson had finished her story, Holmes suggested that they continue on to the shrine of the Sleeping Vishnu. A group of children had by now gathered about them. The children stared at them, laughing, and they smiled in return. Then a gong sounded, and the children motioned to them to follow. They climbed to the top of the shrine, where they looked down on a procession, the continuation of the very same one that Holmes had seen at the city gate. Nine tall figures, with large bra.s.s faces, their bodies clothed in red robes, walked slowly to a small statue of the Buddha, where they bowed in silence, and then moved on. They watched them until they disappeared in the distance. They then turned back, and by the time we reached the Residence, it was dusk, and the pandit took his leave.

"Lucy Richardson's deeply moving story had served to confirm my worst fears," said Holmes. "Though I did not know it for certain, there was a growing suspicion in my mind that the mysterious and cruel Mr. Morrison might now be in Katmandu. Why else the great interest in things Nepalese? Perhaps he was the murderer of Rizzetti, and was directing Wright's actions within the Residence. But as far as I knew he was not there but elsewhere. How to resolve these questions?"

He decided on immediate action. First, he needed to know more about Morrison. He recalled that he had confided his whereabouts to only one individual, his brother Mycroft, with whom he had previously arranged an elaborate code system should he have to establish contact with him. It was based on cryptographic principles that Mycroft had invented in his youth. Whenever possible, as an added precaution, this code was embedded in the most obscure of languages. Holmes had used the Burushaski language of Hunza on several occasions in the past and once before Lorana, an obscure South American Indian dialect. This time, having no access to them, he decided to use Kusunda, the language of a dying Himalayan tribe, one that Hodgson himself had originally discovered. This language, even more unknown than Burushaski, was almost extinct and was known to only two Europeans. The possibility of its being understood in any way during the message's transmission were most improbable. He signed the message "Jorgensen," the name of the author of a small Kusunda-English lexicon. This would identify the language as well as the book that would help Mycroft decode it. In his message, he asked for as much information about Morrison and his whereabouts as Mycroft could uncover. Gorashar hired a reliable runner to take the message by the shortest route to the Tarai, thence to the nearest wireless station in India for transmission to London. The runner was instructed to wait for a reply. a.s.suming a normal trip for the runner and adequate time for Mycroft to provide answers to his questions, he could expect an answer in no less than three days.

"I then determined," said Holmes, "that I must enter the Residence secretly that night and speak with Richardson himself, for his own version of events might be most illuminating."

Entering would not be a difficult business. The Residence was not particularly well guarded. Holmes had noted the presence of two sepoys at the gate during the day and three at night. They sometimes patrolled along the walls but often neglected to do so. Scaling the high wall would be the main problem, but he had noticed several places where this could be done by climbing a nearby tree.

"It was well after midnight when I set out. The nocturnal scene of Katmandu by now had become familiar to me. As usual, I wore Nepalese dress for the night so that I might pa.s.s unnoticed were I to be seen in the dark. I walked quickly, taking the route through the central bazaar area. In a short time I had moved through Asantol to Kamalachi, where I turned to the left past the city gate and continued on to the Residence. As I arrived I could see by the light of their lanterns that the three guards were fast asleep. Entering would pose no problem. My only fear was unexpectedly running into Dr. Wright should he be with the Resident during the night. I decided, however, that it was well worth the risk. I scaled a tall tree that was near the wall, climbed out on a large limb, and jumped down to the wall. From it I could see the entire garden and the back of the Residence. There was a light coming from a window near the veranda, and I as I drew closer I could see the Resident. He was alone and in his nightgown. I drew as close as I could. He appeared to be at work. He was writing by candle light, engrossed in the tasks that he had been forced to neglect during the days previous. Everything appeared calm and peaceful."

Suddenly Holmes heard a slight noise in the garden below. There, moving in the yard, was an immense human figure, well over seven feet tall, dressed in black, walking slowly toward the Residence. He carried a lantern in his left hand and appeared to be searching the ground as he walked. His clothes were reminiscent of those of almost a century ago, and he had a long white beard. The figure interrupted its walk, stooped over, and began to moan. Then it stood erect and again began its slow approach to the Residence. It was at this point that Holmes saw the Resident move slowly. He had a pistol in his hand. As the figure drew nearer, Richardson rose, opened the door to the veranda and walked out. He took slow deliberate aim at the figure and fired. At that range Holmes judged that the shot had to be a direct hit. The figure reeled slightly but did not fall. Again Richardson took careful aim at the head and chest, firing several shots. While their impact was visible, they did not stop nor wound the apparition. There was only a strange, dry, cracking noise as the impact of the bullets. .h.i.t its body.

Unable to stop the apparition, Richardson became terrified and rang for the servants, who came running. In the few seconds in which Holmes took his eyes away to watch the Resident, the figure in the garden disappeared into the night. He continued to lie flat on the wall so as not to be noticed. Richardson was helped back into his bedroom by two attendants, and by Lucy, who appeared distraught at the sight of his trembling. Dr. Wright came soon after. Holmes watched as he mixed a potion. He appeared calm and unconcerned as he ministered to the Resident, and soon left.

Holmes smiled inwardly, for parts of this complex plot were becoming clearer to him now. One thing was certain: Richardson was not having hallucinations. What he had seen was real and not the nocturnal imaginings of a feverish brain. As Holmes peered through the window, he could see him lying in his bed, frightened, the pistol firmly clasped in his right hand. Holmes's task now was to reach him and question him before he used his gun and put an end to his own life, for he was an excellent shot. Fortune was with him, for he saw that despite his fear, Richardson was tiring and was beginning to doze off. Whatever Wright had fed him had begun to take effect.

When Holmes was sure that he was asleep, he made his way over to the veranda and entered the Resident's room. He quickly took the pistol out of his hand, and shook him gently. Richardson was about to scream when Holmes put his hand over his mouth firmly and said: "Have no fear. I am a friend. You are not sick, nor are you having visions."

"Kaul!" he exclaimed. "How on earth did you enter?"

"All explanations at the proper time. Right now we haven't a moment to lose. Mr. Richardson, your life is in mortal danger. You must leave the Residence with me at once. Your absence will be for a short time, at the most perhaps two days, perhaps only a matter of hours."

"I cannot leave my post, nor can I leave my daughter."

"You have no choice. For the moment at least, your daughter is in no real danger, but you are. Trust me. Time is short."

These last words seemed to rea.s.sure and convince him that he must leave. Holmes threw a coat over him, and he followed him out onto the veranda. Holmes insisted that they go by the way he had come. It was not easy for the Resident in his weakened condition, and several times Holmes thought that he might fall off the wall as they crawled along it to the tree that would lead them below. But the freedom that the Resident now felt had invigorated him, and once they lowered themselves from the tree, he walked briskly enough. There was no one out at this hour, and they easily entered the hotel and Holmes's room unseen by anyone.

"I decided at this point to identify myself to him, Watson, for I thought that the pretences that I had set up were about to crumble under the force of events. He seemed highly sceptical at first, considering the news that had spread about my death, but a few details about the Reichenbach Falls and Professor Moriarty quickly a.s.sured him that it was indeed Sherlock Holmes standing before him."

"What is happening here in Nepal, Holmes?" asked the Resident. "Why on earth should someone want to injure me?"

"I have several theories, but I do not have sufficient information to decide among them. But let me hear your account of events."

The Resident began slowly, his words unclear at first, Holmes prodding him at times with questions.

"Despite your saying that you saw the apparition tonight yourself," he said, "I still cannot remove it from my mind. I have been ill, very ill. At night I see these visions and cannot sleep. The hallucinations are spirits, according to those Nepalese who want us British out of Nepal, because our presence desecrates their soil. We must leave, therefore, otherwise we shall die here, they say. Dr. Wright says these visions are rather typical of Nepalese illnesses. Sometimes I feel better after his treatment, other times much worse.

"Are these visions all like the one tonight, or are there others as well?"

"'There is really only one. It begins after I have fallen asleep. I am awakened by something, perhaps the strange creaking sound that the vision makes as it approaches. I see it vaguely at first through my window. Then there comes a dim light. It is a lantern carried by a tall, bearded figure dressed in black, wandering through the garden. Last night it came close. And I saw its face, the face of a withered old man. The servants say it is the ghost of one of the former Residents, Hodgson, whose spirit has returned from England to search for his dead wife. They say that he will not leave until I leave or I am dead. At first I did not for a minute believe any of it, Mr. Holmes, but the visions continued and had a frightening reality to them, as you saw tonight. At times they have been so real, in fact, that I have been afraid of losing my mind. I am an excellent marksman, Mr. Holmes, and you saw yourself that bullets had no effect on the ghostly figure.

"I understand," said I, "but pray continue, for the ghosts are indeed real and have a natural explanation."

"'Whatever the nature of the phenomena, Mr. Holmes, I believe we are dealing with some evil presence that has come to Katmandu. I arrived in Nepal almost exactly eight years ago. Before that I had served in Rajasthan at our garrison in Kotah and then Ajmer as consul a.s.signed to two princely courts, and then finally in Indore. I was then offered this post and accepted with alacrity. My wife, however, was less sanguine, and it became clear that the narrow orthodoxy of the Hindoo rulers, and the poverty of the bazaar and the countryside, led to a boredom that became intolerable to her. A marriage that had been more or less a social convenience fell apart under the strain, and after a few months in Katmandu we parted, she returning to England where our daughter was put in school.

"For the first time in many years I felt free, and in a short time one of the beautiful servant girls became my mistress. Her name was Mara and she was as beautiful and kind as a gentle maid could be. Very soon, Mara became with child. This appalled me at first, but there was little I could do but what a Nepalese n.o.bleman would do: let her have the child and support them both. Her family learned from her what had transpired and became furious. Their anger was subverted, however, by large dollops of cash which I contributed to their impecunious coffers, and they became not only reconciled but genuinely pleased at the result, for they are Sherpas, Buddhists by faith, freer in their social ties and far less under the sway of the Hindoos than the other tribes of Nepal.

"The birth, however, proved to be extremely difficult. What had appeared to be normal in every way turned into a horror. The surgeon, Mr. Oldfield, tried his best to work through the gaggle of superst.i.tious women who attended the birth, but despite the power of his medicine, Mara died in childbirth and the infant died with her. I was greatly grieved by her loss, for this gentle friend had filled my lonely hours with solace. Because she died in childbirth and because the child was part feringhi, of European percentage, she could not be cremated according to the usual rites, so Mara and the child were buried in the Residence garden. Except for Dr. Oldfield, who aided me in every way, I might have gone mad with grief. He nursed me through the worst and then unfortunately was rea.s.signed to Calcutta. He was succeeded eventually by Dr. Wright, who has ministered to me through my present illness."

The visions, he said, began not long after Dr. Oldfield departed for India. He was sitting alone in the garden one evening. The newly arrived Wright and he had supped together, and he had retired early. It grew dark, the wind began to blow rather hard, and the air filled with bats from the large jacaranda trees. Then he heard what sounded like the groans of a woman and an infant's wail. A figure, wearing the dress of England of a half century ago, appeared in the far corner of the yard, as if bewildered, looking, bending, searching. He carried a light.

"I stared in amazement, wondering how such a figure could have entered without my seeing him. I shouted first, but it paid no attention. I then rushed towards it, but by the time I got there, it had disappeared without a trace."

"Most interesting," said Holmes, "not unlike the disappearance that we witnessed tonight, though the bullets that pa.s.sed through him may have made him travel a bit faster."

Richardson smiled for the first time, and continued with his description.

"I first thought it was some sort of ruse and tried to put it out of my mind" he said. "But I was clearly frightened by something I remembered: it was an old wives' tale concerning Hodgson. It was said that Hodgson had a Nepalese wife who died in childbirth and who is buried in the garden. The burial of a second wife there, in the same ground, would cause an intolerable rivalry between their spirits and would cause his wife's spirit to summon him for protection. The tale must have had some subtle effect for at the same time I became racked with fever, horrible pain in every joint and muscle and pain in the very core of my stomach, as though I had been pierced by a flaming-hot rod. And so there I sat, guilty of no crime, yet visited by an affliction that seemed to demand nothing less than my demise, at least until your arrival upon the scene."

Richardson finished speaking and Holmes could see that he by now was on the point of exhaustion. He summoned Gorashar, who after hearing of some of the events of the night, promised that he would have Richardson safely installed in his own chambers within the hotel, an area totally inaccessible to outsiders.

"Gorashar also had received answers to my inquiries, and here, Watson, is ill.u.s.trated one of those general truths concerning our relations with foreign nations that often goes unnoticed by our Government's servants abroad: that what is common knowledge in the bazaar rarely reaches through to the isolated confines of our diplomatic inst.i.tutions. What I learned was that the surgeon-general Daniel Wright, appointed to join Richardson at the Residence, had been attacked and murdered shortly after he had crossed the Nepalese border. He had been replaced by an impostor, an Englishman whose ident.i.ty was unknown. Another Englishman had been observed at the scene of the crime, but his role in it was also unknown. Whoever he was, however, it was believed that he was acting in concert with those in the palace who had decided to do away with the present Maharajah and replace him with one of their own family. Were the intrigue to prove successful, the new group would be far less friendly to British power in the Subcontinent. The appearance of spirits and ghosts within the Residence was widely believed by the population to signify some approaching calamity for them, whether political or natural they did not know. So much for the bazaar. The glance of evil intelligence that I had seen in the eyes of Rizzetti's murderer led me to believe, however, that he had his own selfish motives, and that even the Nepalese plotters were not safe from his designs."

By then it was early morning. Holmes dressed and made his way to the Residence for his usual daily visit with Shiv Shankar and Shri Gunanand. As he entered, it was apparent that something was amiss. Only Gunanand was there. He informed him that the Resident had disappeared during the night and that his whereabouts were unknown. Dr. Wright was now in charge of the Residence and had gone to the Maharajah's court to notify the Nepalese government of the Resident's disappearance. Miss Richardson had taken to her room but had left word that she should be notified as soon as Pandit Kaul arrived. She appeared in the pandits' study almost immediately. She did well in hiding her emotions, but Holmes detected extreme agitation and worry in her eyes.

"You have probably heard the news of my father's disappearance, Panditji. Where could he be? I am terribly afraid for him."

"Perhaps a walk in the garden might help," Holmes said. He longed to tell her that her father was safe, but decided that an honestly distraught daughter was the best course, for under the circ.u.mstances the merest slip by her and the villains would be threatening her as well.

She smiled wanly. "Yes," she said, "why not? Father is very proud of his flowers."

As they walked, she told him of the events that had unfolded the night before.

"I wonder," said Holmes, "if you could show me the spot where the apparition appeared. I have an interest in folklore and local superst.i.tions, being a native of these mountains myself, though I come from the very far western region."

They crossed the terrace and entered the gardens. Several malis were at work, planting new beds of flowers. It was as though they were thrown into St. James's in May. At one end of the garden Holmes noticed what appeared to be a bathing place.

"This is an old dhara or watering place, my father says. It dates from the time of the Licchavi kings. It has not been used for centuries," she said.

"'I see that you have become a student of local history," said Holmes.

"Not really, though I do take some interest. What I know is very little, some from my father, but mostly from the resident pandits."

Holmes was eager to take a closer look at the structure. He noticed what appeared to be an old inscription on the spout of the fountain.

"'I would like to have a closer look at the inscription."

"Of course," she said.

Lucy waited above as Holmes climbed down the small set of steps that descended into the tank itself. Gra.s.s and other weeds had filled much of it, and it showed no signs of use. He looked closely at the inscription at first, then his eyes fell to the ground. Everywhere there were high weeds, the look of disrepair, of no movement or life for centuries. At one end there was the usual water spout decorated with ancient gargoyles. Below it a stone bas-relief of the usual water sprite. The sculpture was quite beautiful, but what riveted his attention were two large stones below it that looked as though they had recently been moved. Fresh sc.r.a.pes around their edges could have been made within the last twenty-four hours. Then he saw on the ground the most interesting thing of all: fragments of wood, or perhaps bamboo, that looked as though they had just been thrown there. He leaned down to pick up the larger pieces, carefully putting them in his pocket.

Holmes climbed the stairs and rejoined Miss Richardson. "A most interesting inscription," he said, "of the famous king Amshuvarman."

"How interesting," she said, "'I had no idea. Perhaps you might translate it . . ." She did not continue, for he could see that she was again overcome by worry for her father.

She was silent as they walked back to the Residence. As they reached the end of their walk, she looked up and said: "Panditji, I do not trust Dr. Wright. My suspicions may be groundless, for he has done nothing that I can point to, but I sometimes feel in his impatience that he bears my father no good will. Now my father has disappeared and I feel that perhaps Wright has something to do with it."

"Miss Richardson," said Holmes, "let me confide in you. There is far more going on in this Residence than meets the eye, and I shall do all I can to help. Tell no one of our conversation and, above all, nothing of my interest in the inscription in the dhara. I shall be close by should you need me." She seemed rea.s.sured, and Holmes bade her good-bye and left. As he walked back through the bazaar, he began to sift through what he knew. The so-called apparition had come and gone through the dhara, that was clear. The large stones were obvious. But from where to where-that was the major question. How and where did this person enter the dhara from within?

When he entered the hotel, Gorashar informed him that the Resident was resting peacefully in a hidden location in the hotel, and that he was safe. Holmes then asked if he might avail myself of a small library of Asiatic researches that Gorashar kept in his private lodgings. Gorashar escorted him to the room himself, and Holmes began looking through the historical works on Nepal.

"I began searching for clues to the ancient form of Katmandu. My eye was immediately caught by a volume ent.i.tled Essays on the Languages, History, and Geography of Nepal. The author was Brian Hodgson himself. I grasped the volume and cast my eye quickly over the table of contents. I read quickly through several articles, one on festivals and processions and another on the ancient agricultural implements of the Newars. My eye was soon caught by a t.i.tle: "On the Fountains and Possible Ancient Waterways of Katmandu." It was a long tedious essay, filled with detailed descriptions of the various fountains of the cities of the valley, of which there are literally hundreds if not thousands that date from at least early Christian times. One paragraph, however, caught my eye: There is no doubt that a complex system of water supply linked the large public fountains both in ancient and medieval times. The large terra-cotta water pipes were serviced by a series of tunnels. There is evidence that the system operated well into the eighteenth century. It is only with the total defeat of the Malla kings by the Gurkhas that this system fell into decay and disuse. Many of the old dharas, having lost their water supply, have turned into vessels of vile filth or have been abandoned to the growth of wild vegetation. If the present regime revives the system, it would be for its own purposes and designs, and it is eminently possible that these underground waterways and tunnels, still st.u.r.dy pa.s.sageways, could be used for political intrigue and military surprise, techniques so successfully employed in the past by the Gurkhas. I am sure that, if one chose to, the Residence compound could be easily infiltrated in this way, but as yet I see no evidence or need for the present rulers to do so. Fortunately, the system appears to have been totally forgotten by the native population.

"I had found my clue, Watson. The Residence contained one of the entrances to the old underground network. One could enter it with ease from the old dhara, either for invasion or to cause hallucinations. If one knew the system, one could enter and leave from almost any point. This was the means by which Hodgson's so-called ghost had entered. The grounds of the Residence had indeed been haunted, from the very beginning perhaps, by a number of people working for their own ends. How whoever had come upon his discovery of this ancient network was not clear, but of his use of it I had no doubt. It enabled him to roam the city at will without fear of discovery. I now had to smoke him out or go in after him."

Holmes eyes were now ablaze with excitement. He lapsed into silence for a few moments before he proceeded, reliving in memory those moments of turbulent emotion as he began to fit the pieces of this complicated mystery together. I said nothing this time, the look of antic.i.p.ation on my face being sufficient to indicate that I wished him to continue. He suddenly became quite pensive and said: "I then began to wonder who indeed it might be. This was a master criminal. Was it this man Morrison, who had disappeared in England and had professed such interest in Katmandu? His name meant nothing to me, and the little that I knew so far-a businessman with dealings in Holland and the Dutch colonies-told me nothing. Yet, it is my calling to know what others do not. Could such a person be unknown to me?"

He grew silent again. I could see the intense struggle for comprehension that must have covered his face as he sat in that old lodge in Katmandu.

"I stared at Hodgson's words in that old tome, Watson, the smell of fifty years of Asiatic mould filling my nostrils. I sat foraging through my memory, checking every similarity, every detail that I knew or could infer as probable, against the activities of thousands of criminals. What I had experienced so far was uniquely singular. I then turned the question around and asked it in a most general way: If I were to ascribe the aforementioned criminal activities to any one person, living or dead, who would it be? I could arrive at only one answer to that question, and it was very disturbing."

Holmes paused, waiting for me to give the inevitable answer: "Moriarty himself !" I e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed.

"Good, Watson, good, but not quite good enough. That Moriarty was capable of the grand intrigue that I had uncovered in Nepal was indubitable. But it was also certain that he was dead. There was no possibility of his having returned from the Reichenbach Falls. No, Moriarty's bones were by now bare and chalk-white at the bottom of that awful abyss."

"Who, then?" I asked anxiously. "Perhaps one of his lieutenants, some of whom approached him in ability? Colonel Moran, perhaps?"

"Someone who had the potential for just as great if not greater evil. Not one of his close a.s.sociates qualified, not even Moran. And, equally important, not one of them was present in Katmandu, as far as I knew. The criminals whom I knew to be there and recognised would be of the greatest use to a master criminal, but not one of them could have been described as such. No, Watson, I began to think of a very different person."

Here he paused for several moments. Then he began anew.

"I have often spoken to you of my brother, Mycroft, and how he possesses to an even greater degree than I the abilities of observation and deduction that I have inherited. In the same way, Watson, there is, or was, one person, capable of more intelligent evil than Professor Moriarty: his brother James. This conclusion came to me as I sat in Gorashar's study. You will recall, Watson, that James Moriarty wrote a defence of his brother in which he alleged that I had fabricated the whole case against him, that he was the innocent victim of the hallucinatory ravings of Sherlock Holmes?"

"Indeed, I do remember, and it was in your defence that I broke my silence and described the events as they were known to me until that time."