The Oriental Casebook Of Sherlock Holmes Part 4

"Until this point, I knew only of James Moriarty's existence, for he had engaged in no criminal activities and had had little contact with his more academic brother. What had put him on his present path I did not know, but I was certain that he was my adversary. This belief was confirmed by the fortunate arrival of Mycroft's response to my message, which I deciphered at once. It read: My Dear Sherlock: My apologies. It took me a bit longer than I thought to locate a copy of Jorgensen's lexicon of the language of the Kusunda, but once I did, decipherment was easy and your message quite clear. In answer to your question, Hodgson is still alive, though very old. He was too weak to converse at length, but he confirmed the fact that he had taken a Nepalese mistress in Katmandu, and that she had died many years ago. This fact is known to several members of his family. There were two children from this liaison, whom he sent to his sister to raise and to school in Amsterdam. The children did not survive, for they were lost at sea off the cost of Ireland. Your other suspicions are quite correct. Richardson's wife is in the clutches of one James Morrison, who has become her lover. Of the greatest import to you is the fact that in reality he is James Moriarty, the brother of your deceased nemesis. How he has recently been converted to criminal behaviour is most interesting, and I shall relate it to you when we meet. In the meantime, exercise extreme caution, for his whereabouts at present are unknown. I cannot trace him beyond a berth on the H.M.S. Prince of Wales, bound for Sydney, but stopping in Calcutta, which means of course that he may not be far away and indeed may be looking for you.

Mycroft "I looked forward to meeting with Mycroft some day and hearing from him how he thought Morrison had become a criminal. But perhaps Mycroft's explanations were unnecessary.

"And here, my dear Watson, permit me a brief digression, for what I say to you now occurred to me at that very moment as I put the match to Mycroft's message. Perhaps, Watson, good and evil are no more than natural properties, woven into our racial structure, indifferent in themselves, like the colour of one's eyes or the size of one's nose. They may be indifferently combined with other traits. Some extraneous factor, perhaps a harsh experience, perhaps a chance meeting that enlivens one of these traits rather than the other, becomes the sufficient cause to determine a man's nature. Randomly created with a preponderance of good or evil, men become natural adversaries when these qualities are combined with intellect and will. It is then their intellect that identifies them to each other as mortal enemies, and the will that immediately opposes them. More than that is unclear to me, but my own experience supports what I have just said as a working hypothesis, one that I shall explore in retirement should that time ever come.

"In any case, I had now identified my implacable adversary and had to a.s.sume that he might have somehow identified me. The final meeting was inevitable, the circ.u.mstances under which it would take place still unknown, and its outcome, whatever it might be, something that I faced by now with a certain equanimity."

I listened with rapt attention as my friend related to me these latest revelations. His theory of good and evil natures led me to pose a question: "Surely, Holmes, the inheritance of such traits as good and evil and the like mean very little unless the sum of inherited traits is known. You have often remarked that Mycroft's abilities of observation and deduction surpa.s.s even yours, and yet, as you have also noted, Mycroft's lack of energy prohibited him from any practical results in the field of crime detection. Surely, James Moriarty must have differed in some way from his brother, the evil professor, that would have aided you in apprehending him."

Holmes smiled. "You are quite correct, Watson, and I thank you for your words of wisdom. Indeed, Moriarty frere had a severe fault. He had a violent and cruel temper that impelled him on to action that he would not have taken had his reason maintained control. The sudden and uncontrolled anger toward Rizzetti and the beating of Mrs. Richardson were two examples of this. I learned of a third that very day upon my return to the Residence. I had decided that, rather than let matters run their course, I would confront Daniel Wright and ask to be taken to Moriarty, alias Morrison. When I entered the Residence compound, I learned that Lucy Richardson had gone out for the afternoon, hoping to learn word of her father, and that Wright was in his study and would see no one. After the guard left, I decided to enter his office unannounced.

"'Wright was there, but he was dead. He had been stabbed in the same way that the foul Rizzetti had been. There were signs of a struggle everywhere. Uncontrollable anger at the Resident's escape had led Moriarty to kill his chief ally."

Holmes examined the dead man and his clothing carefully. His private papers indicated that his real name was Saunders, that he had served in the Indian army as a medical orderly, but that he had been discharged for violent acts against his men as well as financial improprieties. He evidently had been hired by Moriarty after his arrival in India, probably in Calcutta, where Saunders had been living the life of a vagrant after his discharge.

Nothing among Saunders's effects revealed Moriarty's whereabouts. Holmes examined the contents of his medical bag closely. His search revealed a number of almost empty vials. They contained the minute remains of a number of poisons, some of which where locally prepared and of the greatest potency. Some of these Saunders had obviously fed to Richardson, in small doses but sufficient to cause great pain, intense fever, and physical deterioration. Doubtlessly, they had been prepared by Rizzetti before his death.

"There was nothing else, except a rather odd pa.s.sage written on a piece of paper on Saunders's desk. It appeared to be written in Saunders's own hand. It resembled a pa.s.sage from the chronicle that the pandits were translating. It read: "And there shall be great bursts of thunder and light, vast explosions in the night, and a crazed Brahman shall kill an untouchable. And Kalanki shall ride into the city on a white horse. And the people shall rejoice in their new G.o.d, for he will reveal himself as the new Vishnu and their new king."

Holmes summoned the two pandits and asked them to take charge of Saunders's body. They were to notify the Nepalese government of the recent events in the Residence. I asked them about the words on Saunders's desk and they confirmed the fact that they were part of the prophetic pa.s.sages from the ancient chronicle. Saunders, alias Wright, had been particularly interested in the prophetic pa.s.sages in the book, but they did not know why. I then took it upon myself to notify Lord Dufferin, the Viceroy, in Calcutta of the recent events. This I did using the wireless in the Residence.

"My hope of being taken to Moriarty had failed, and I now, alone and unaided, faced the monumental task of finding him, probably lurking in a subterranean lair somewhere beneath the streets and alleys of Katmandu. Saunders was the only one I knew who might have led me to him. I could not mount a search alone in such a labyrinth, for once I entered it I would in all likelihood never come out alive. No, I had to know beforehand where the minotaur had his lair and I had to lure him out."

Holmes's frustration turned to despair when he was informed by a sobbing attendant that Lucy Richardson had disappeared in the bazaar. He had to a.s.sume the worst, that she had fallen into the clutches of the second Moriarty, and that he had been checkmated.

Holmes fell silent at this juncture and I could see on his face the agony of despair that he had lived through at that dark moment. I had seen this only rarely in the past in England, for here he disposed of numerous resources that helped him in his battles, but in the alien world where he had found himself, he was thrown completely on his own. Unstated too was an obvious affection that had been awakened in him by Lucy Richardson, an affection which he did not mention but which played subtly on his face even now when he spoke her name. The well-cultivated armour that protected him from his own emotions had indeed been pierced by this brave young woman, and the usual clarity of his mind had been confused by this unexpected confrontation with his own hitherto rarely used emotions.

"I questioned Miss Richardson's attendant closely," he said. "They had been walking in a gully near Asantol, she said, when they unexpectedly encountered a crowd of people come to see a large procession of idols. The procession separated them, but she could still see Miss Richardson, who was talking to a Nepalese gentleman whom she followed through a small doorway. The procession of idols followed through the doorway, which led into a monastery courtyard, but even though the attendant managed to reach the doorway, she was unable to find Miss Richardson or anyone knowing in which direction she had gone. It was as if she had disappeared into thin air. The attendant then raced back to the Residence to report on what had happened."

Holmes had no doubt that Lucy was now in the clutches of Moriarty and had been led on initially by word that he, under the alias of Morrison, wished to see her. She had probably been taken to him through one of the innumerable entrances to the underground system.

"I left the Residence and returned to the hotel. Gorashar led me to the inner area where Richardson had been hidden. When I saw him, I realised that his health had begun to recover, for he had begun to eat and his pain had eased considerably. I decided to tell him everything, including the possibility of Lucy's capture by Morrison. He was of course amazed at my long discourse and what it revealed to him about his wife's life in England and the sufferings of his daughter. He could shed no light on Moriarty's whereabouts, however, nor did he know anything of the underground system beneath the city of Katmandu."

Holmes returned to his room, still trying to find the clue that would let him know where Moriarty was and the grand design of his evil plans. He reviewed all in his mind: the murder of Rizzetti; the elaborate attempt to kill Richardson and to scare him with false apparitions; the murder of Wright before he arrived in Katmandu; the murder of Saunders, and the mysterious prophecies written on his desk in his own hand; and finally, the disappearance of Lucy Richardson in a religious procession. As he turned these matters over in his mind, he scrutinised every detail that had been offered. It was then that he remembered the bamboo fragments that he had picked up in the old dhara in the Residence garden. He took them out of his pocket and placed them on the table. They had been smashed by Richardson's bullets, but the few fragments that he fitted together formed a curved piece about four inches long. Suddenly, as he stared at these innocuous fragments, they jogged something in his memory, something that he recalled reading in another one of Hodgson's old essays. He began to see the pattern that had escaped him until then, and within a few seconds he saw the entire scheme, the whole ingenious, mad plan. All was revealed by contemplating a few pieces of shattered bamboo, for if he was correct, they linked everything together. The only question now was whether he could act in time.

"There was a sudden knock at my door, and Lakshman appeared with a note. I opened it and read: My Dear Holmes: By the time you receive this, events will have moved far beyond anything that you can do to prevent them. I had suspected for a long time that you had escaped the Reichenbach Falls, but I finally became sure of your presence here through my interception of your message from your brother. You have done well in your disguises, but you have already caused me not inconsiderable inconvenience, and I shall be happy to settle with you in due course.

In the meantime, I invite you to enjoy the events that will ensue shortly. And, to allay any doubts that you may have had, Lucy is here beside me and sends her very best to you.

James Moriarty"

As Holmes recited the contents of Moriarty's letter, he visibly turned pale before me, and I felt his overwhelming despair. So palpably did he relive the events in his narrative that I found myself fearing the worst. It was only his presence before me that guaranteed the outcome. He had suffered a piece of very bad luck in Moriarty's interception of Mycroft's message, perhaps even a mortal one, but certainly an unforgivable one in his own eyes. His face and body sagged in front of me as he uttered the last words that Moriarty had written him. But as he approached the final events of his tale, he regained his confidence and continued his narrative.

"The last sentence, the reference to Lucy, made it imperative that I act with the greatest speed. I raced down the hotel steps, only to be accosted by Gorashar, who pleaded with me not to leave the hotel, for he said that a rumour had spread rapidly through the city that the Brahmanical predictions for calamity had fallen on this very night and that people were engaged in frantic worship to dispel the displeasure of the G.o.ds caused by the presence of the English, the feringhi Mleccha, or barbarians, on their sacred soil. A Brahman, mad with fear, had just killed a Kusle, an untouchable, in a rage over having been polluted by the untouchable's shadow. This incident had taken place not far from the hotel. This was taken by the people as the sign that Vishnu himself was to appear in his last avatar. After his appearance, the present era would come to an end, evildoers would be punished, and a new ruling dynasty would be installed. Gorashar himself believed none of this and considered it part of a plot to overthrow the present regime. He did not know who the actors were, nor where they were, but the most primitive emotions had now been unleashed and the people would listen to no one, neither the Rana, nor the King himself, for their fate was also sealed in what was seen by a superst.i.tious people as the end of the world. It was at times like this, said Gorashar, that he feared the violent emotions pent up for centuries in the hearts of a gentle but oppressed people. The priests had called for the entire population to a.s.semble at nightfall in the Tundhikhel, the meeting ground in the center of the city, for a Maha Puja, or great sacrifice, to pacify the G.o.d Vishnu."

It was already dusk and Holmes could hear the footfalls of many people running to the great field or maidan in the centre of the city. He had little time before it became dark. He pulled away from Gorashar's anxious grip and ran into the street. Everywhere people were walking, some running towards the Tundhikhel. Each person carried a flaming torch of straw as they marched towards their destination. The city was as if in flames, as if every human being was pulled by the desire to void the priestly prophesy.

"I ran towards Asan, unnoticed by the crowd that hypnotically moved in the opposite direction, looking for the shop where I had once seen Thalmann, the Austrian gunsmith. The shop was closed, but I broke the lock to the entrance with no difficulty. No one was there-I was sure Thalmann was part of the evening's programme, as were the other criminals I had seen in the bazaar. I found what I had hoped to find, however. There, in a back room hidden from the street, Thalmann had kept several of the finest examples of his craft: I chose the best of the Salzburg rifles, itself the most accurate weapon then in existence. Thalmann had stored an endless supply of ammunition. I stuffed my pockets with bullets, wrapped the rifle in a woollen blanket, and made my way towards the Tundhikhel, now bright with tens of thousands of torches."

The heat and smoke were intense, said Holmes, and several people were lying on the ground, overcome by the flames and smoke. Then, suddenly, as he reached the edge of Bhotahity, the first of several explosions rocked the city. The sky flashed bright with their light and he was thrown to the ground by their force. People cried in fear but continued their blind flight towards the Tundhikhel. He picked myself up and ran with them. When he reached the great maidan, he looked for a building from where he could see from above. He darted into a nearby house, vacant now, climbing the stairs as fast as he could. When he reached the veranda, he saw the crowds converging in the field, the priests exhorting them to hurry to perform the great offering. The entire maidan appeared to be in flames, as if lit by a thousand suns. The explosions he now saw were coming from the southwest, from the military cantonment, where large amounts of explosives were stored.

Suddenly, the explosions stopped. There was dead silence. Holmes heard only the chanting of a priest and the crackling of the straw torches.

"Then came the sound of Vishnu," he said, "the roar of a thousand conch sh.e.l.ls. I looked towards the east. There, riding slowly on a large white horse, was a gigantic figure, four-armed, crowned with a golden helmet. He was accompanied by a large group of cavalry that rode behind him, dressed in ancient Hindoo military regalia. The great white horse stopped before the crowd. The people bowed in awe. Great Vishnu had arrived. The crowd was as one as it waited for the divine message.

"I had but a moment now," said Holmes, his eyes ablaze. "I raised the rifle to my shoulder and took aim at the great figure, directly at his head and chest. I fired and heard the impact of my bullet. I fired again as fast as I could. The figure reeled, trying to hold on to the reins, but the horse reared up, throwing the rider. My shots had blown away the top part of the rider's costume, revealing a common bamboo cage, resting on the shoulders of a tall Englishman, who now stood exposed to the enormous hostile crowd a.s.sembled in front of him."

The last avatar of Vishnu had been fatally exposed. His allies in the plot quickly abandoned him. His soldiers fled, and the crowd, seeing him and him alone as the perpetrator of this blasphemy, pulled him from his horse and, several drawing their Khukhris, swiftly despatched James Moriarty to his final destiny.

"I had still to find Lucy Richardson, however. I descended into the crowd and saw Caspariste trying to flee after having fallen from his horse. I grabbed him and, with a few threats, convinced him to take me to the dead Moriarty's lair. We entered the underground waterways through a dhara near the Mahakala temple, and walked by candlelight to a series of chambers that had been used by the ancient engineers of the city. There, still under guard, was a terrified Lucy Richardson. Once informed that the plot had failed, the guard fled, and Lucy accompanied me back to the hotel, where she rejoined her father. Caspariste I allowed to go free to seek his own fate."

The following morning, said Holmes, the Maharajah of Nepal, Bir Shamsher, announced the arrest of one of his younger brothers, for plotting revolutionary activities with an unknown Mleccha, a heathen foreigner, who had performed a heinous deed by attempting to impersonate the great G.o.d Vishnu. They had wished not only to overthrow his government, he said, but also to create a state of tension between Nepal and the Government of India, and to destroy the trust between him and the Nepalese people. Henceforward, he said, even more severe restrictions would be imposed on the entrance of foreigners to the Kingdom, and those who had partic.i.p.ated in the plot would be severely punished. He absolved the Resident, his family, and the staff of any complicity in the events of the last few weeks, and announced again his desire for the friendliest relations with the Government of India and the Queen-Empress, and that he had communicated directly with Lord Dufferin.

Holmes rose from where we had been seated. "There is more to the story, Watson, but it is late and perhaps you have heard enough."

Neither of us was ready to retire, and I suggested a walk outside so that he could complete the tale. As we walked down Baker Street, I looked at my friend as he strode, tall and erect now, against the darkening trees and the star-filled sky. We walked for a time in silence. He only spoke when we arrived at Trafalgar Square and then only in answer to my bewildered silence, for on many levels much remained unexplained.

"I a.s.sume, Watson, that you are sorting out your puzzlements. You have the narrative, and the clues, of course, but certain crucial deductions had to be made and, in fairness to you, could only be made on the spot."

"Tell me first," I said, "what you deduced from the bamboo fragments."

"Almost everything. You see, they connected three crucial elements of the mystery: the figure of Hodgson's ghost, Lucy's disappearance, and finally, Moriarty's appearance as Vishnu. This web of connections came to me as I stared at them. They were obviously the result of Richardson's bullet hitting the tall figure of Hodgson. Why had he not produced blood instead of bamboo with his bullets? It was only after staring at them that I remembered the processions I had seen, and a note in pa.s.sing in Hodgson's essays concerning religious processions among the Newars of Katmandu: the men dress as their G.o.ds by wearing bamboo cages on their upper bodies. These then bear the large head of the deity and the divine drapery. The effect is quite dramatic: large, tall divine figures appear to walk down the paths of the old cities to the temples themselves. In the night they are quite striking. Fortunately, for the person underneath the head and clothes of Hodgson, Richardson did not aim any lower, for had he, the result would have been quite different."

"And who was that person?"

"Caspariste, who admitted as much to me before I let him go. He is still at large. The same local custom was taken advantage of to capture Lucy Richardson, for as she was walking in the bazaar, a procession pa.s.sed and she was whisked under one of the idols by one of Moriarty's henchmen, in this case a local soldier, who took her to Moriarty's hideaway. And, of course, I realised instantly that I could unseat Moriarty from his mount if I could but have the means. The Salzburg rifle, incidentally, my dear Watson, is a formidable weapon."

"I must say, Holmes, that I am still a bit puzzled by Moriarty's purpose. Why did he do what he did?"

Holmes laughed. "Ah, Watson, surely all of this had high stakes. As you know, we do not keep our Empire without a price, and we have many enemies both within the Subcontinent and Asia as a whole. We are the envy of mankind, but we must maintain constant vigilance. The plot in brief was to incapacitate the Resident and to keep him permanently ill and isolated, but not to kill him unless absolutely necessary; then, during his incapacitation, to take over the Nepalese Government and to install a group friendly on the outside but inwardly inimicable to British interests in the Subcontinent; and from there, with the aid of unfriendly nations, to forge alliances with dissatisfied groups and princes elsewhere in India in order to drive us out. I can a.s.sure you that an alliance of Gurkhas, Sikhs, Mahrattas, and Afghans would surely give us a bit of a time. It almost happened a few decades ago. Your own experiences in Afghanistan should allow you to recall the price that we have often paid to keep our Empire at peace. The diabolical part of course was to prey upon the people, by using their superst.i.tious fears, their own history and predictions-in fact, to attempt to topple the present Government. Moriarty could not resist playing Vishnu himself, an incredible piece of theatre, I must say. In all likelihood, however, his worldly stakes were even higher than his divine aspirations: to become the leader of an independent India."

"Had you not been there, Holmes, I hesitate to think . . ."

"Curiously enough, Watson, had I not been there it probably would not have happened at all."

"Why do you say that?

"Because Moriarty suspected that I was there, and even designed the whole plot in part as a confrontation between the two of us."

"Surely he knew that you were there after he intercepted your message to Mycroft. But how the deuce did he know that you were there before?"

"Only a surmise, of course, Watson, since we did not talk. But I confirmed it on my return to England. I knew that my disguise as a Scandinavian naturalist in Tibet had some bad moments. I had become famous in some quarters for my scientific work, and despite my best efforts to avoid being photographed, on several occasions this indeed had happened. I knew that at least one of these photographs had appeared in print in an obscure Himalayan botanical journal devoted to the work of Joseph Hooker, the great Himalayan botanist. Unfortunately, you may recall that Colonel Moran, Moriarty's chief henchman, still at large then, had specialised in the study of the plants of the Himalayas. I had to a.s.sume that he kept au courant and that he might have seen this photograph, recognised me, and communicated his suspicions about my whereabouts. Moriarty's desire for revenge for his brother's death was very great."

"Intercepting your message was no accident, then."

"No, indeed it was not, but reading it and understanding it was another matter, Watson, and here I must say I did not understand this part of the puzzle until I returned to England. I first attributed Moriarty's success in deciphering the message to bad luck and his mathematical genius. That would have taken him to the point of revealing the text. But how could he have access to such a language as this one in order to read it? His success was complete and at once inexplicable. You will recall that I took peculiar pains to find a minor Himalayan dialect in which to write this language, to wit, the Kusunda."

"Yes, indeed. Surely, Moriarty could not have known that language beforehand."

Holmes smiled. "Here, Watson, under Lord Nelson's statue, I shall finish the tale for you."

We sat, watching the thinning crowd of late strollers. Holmes was far more calm now than he had been, but in the dark his eyes held their light, and I listened attentively.

"My first task upon my return to England was a visit to Brian Hodgson. Before I left Nepal, I knew that he was still alive, ninety-one years of age, still vigorous, but in declining health. I hoped that he would live until I returned so that I could clear up much of the mystery that related to the appearance of his "ghost."

Holmes had no sooner disembarked at Dover than he made his way to the village of Aldersley, where Hodgson had lived since his return to England. He stayed the first night at the local inn, and in the morning made the necessary inquiries. Hodgson was indeed still alive, according to several villagers, and lived on a large estate about two miles from the centre of the village. Holmes sent word by a young village boy that he had just returned from Nepal and that he brought word of that country and greetings from some of his surviving friends. He had an almost immediate and positive reply from the old man. He was very anxious to talk to anyone who came from that part of the world.

"That afternoon, I climbed into a cab and went to visit him. His estate began down a path that lay to the south of the village. The road to the main dwelling was lined with old oaks, and the house itself, when I saw it, was a most imposing but unpleasant structure. Part of it may have dated back to Norman times, for it was made of stone, with small windows in turrets. I realised as we approached it, however, that it was vacant."

The cabby turned and informed me that "the old gentleman" lived in a cottage farther down the road. Holmes could see the house, a simple English country cottage, surrounded by flower gardens. It was not unlike the Residence in Katmandu, and as he approached, the door opened and Hodgson himself came out to greet him. Holmes was taken aback at his appearance, for there before him again was the apparition that had appeared in the garden in Katmandu: a very tall, thin figure, slightly hunched, dressed in black, with a long white beard. The hallucinatory Hodgson had been a deft and expert creation, indeed. Holmes alighted from his cab and greeted him: "I bring you tidings from Nepal, from the Maharaja Bir Shamsher."

Hodgson smiled, grabbed Holmes's hand more vigorously than he would have imagined, and led him to his study. It was here that the great scholar Hodgson continued to work, still cataloguing the research that he had originally begun decades before. They talked for the rest of the afternoon.

"As we conversed, I was thoroughly aware that he was the oldest human being I had ever known. He was wrinkled, arthritic, and obviously very frail. Yet, as soon as he began to speak, his years disappeared, and I was faced with a vigorous mind and a long interrogation. He was filled with questions about his beloved Nepal, and I tried in so far as I was able to acquaint him with the latest political developments. But he had many detailed questions, about the Residence as well, about the bazaar, about the effects of the Mutiny, and the whereabouts of Nana Sahib and his retinue, about the Ranas and their rule. I described all that I knew to him, even down to changes in the Residence staff. He had not been there in fifty years, and yet his memory was wondrously detailed. He had forgotten nothing of that country, or of his years there."

It was towards the end of his questions that Holmes felt confident enough to pose his own. Since they were of a personal nature, Holmes began by asking him permission to probe in areas that he might not like to talk about, and that if he chose not to, he would understand.

"'In order to clarify some of the events that transpired during my visit there, I should like to ask some questions that will enable me to bring to an end certain puzzlements that have eluded solution until now. They concern your marriage to a native woman and your offspring from that relation."

Without indicating whether or not he was disturbed by the question, Hodgson rose, went over to the door, and closed it.

"'Unlike many of my countrymen abroad, I have made no secret of my early relationship. It is taken up, though not in detail, by my biographer, Mr. Hunter. It is, however, still a very painful subject for my present wife, and therefore if we are to discuss it in detail, I should like to do so behind closed doors. And in confidence, of course."

Holmes explained to him that he had no desire to cause him or his wife pain, and that his interest had nothing to do with his personal life, but with only the light that his answers might shed on the mysterious events that still had not been resolved. He explained to him that because of the nature of those events, he preferred to remain silent, for disclosing them to him could serve no useful purpose and might add to the pain of his last years.

"As with so many things in life, Mr. Holmes," said Hodgson, "there is a great deal to tell and very little at the same time. You wish to know of my early involvement with a Mahometan woman. I cannot imagine what significance to you such events of almost fifty years ago might have, but since I have nothing to fear and am not really curious about your reasons, I shall tell you all. Briefly, in my last years as Resident, I came to know a Mahometan family that lived not far from the small mosque that served the small community of Moslem merchants who lived in the city. From Kashmir originally, the family had gone first to Lhasa and then settled in Katmandu. So many generations back, however, was their Kashmiri origin that the family had little recollection of it, and considered themselves to be Nepalese in every way. The family was small, consisting of Salim, a merchant who dealt in saffron, his wife, and their daughter. I frequented their household often, for I often found social intercourse with the Mahometans far easier than with the Hindoos, who often were subject to difficult restrictions of commensality and pollution where I was concerned. With my Mahometan friend, I could act entirely naturally and felt often far more at home than I did elsewhere. It was not long, however, before I became aware that my friend and his wife were victims of consumption, a respiratory affliction that is pervasive in Katmandu. They died after a few months, within days of each other, leaving their daughter an orphan. For reasons that were not clear to me, both her near relatives and friends within the Moslem community refused to support her. Unmarriageable without parents, she had no prospects, and I decided to have her live at the Residence. She was literate, trained by her father in Arabic and Persian, and I set her upon the study of some ma.n.u.scripts that her father had shown me, in particular accounts of the Lhasa bazaar that her great-grandfather had written while living in Tibet. It was not long before our relationship began to change, however. From a rather distant one at the beginning, I found myself seeking her company, until I realised that I was becoming very attached to her. Our friendship and intimacy grew in the privacy of the Residence. She was very beautiful, and it was not long before I asked her to live with me as my wife. She was nineteen at the time, and I thirty-seven. We both knew that I could not marry her officially, since the rules of the Company disallowed such relationships, but so happy was I that I vowed that once I had completed my service, we would marry legally and would spend the rest of our lives together. That indeed was my intention, to which she acquiesced at once."

The old man paused for a moment. It was obvious to Holmes that he was approaching the painful part of his tale.

"The irregularity of such a relationship bothered few in Nepal," he continued. "They regarded it as an inevitable consequence of my presence, and found it appropriate that I had picked a Mahometan woman. The choice muted any criticism that the choice of a woman of Hindoo birth might have given rise to, where many who considered themselves part of Hindoo orthodoxy regarded my presence as an affront to the sacred purity of the land.

They lived happily, he said, and in time she gave birth to two sons, two years apart, who were the joy of their years. Their time together, however, was cut short, for the disease that had taken her parents suddenly reappeared in his wife, who, pregnant again, died in childbirth at the young age of twenty-five, exhausted by the racking consumption that had also taken her parents. The infant, a girl, died with her. Hodgson buried them together in the small graveyard in the Residence compound. She left him broken-hearted, with two young boys, aged six and four.

"The boys were badly affected by their mother's sudden death. I had been much absent because of my work, which took me often to Calcutta, and their dependence on her was almost total. Without her, what had been two joyful young children became silent and sullen. They barely recognised me and spent almost all their time with a family of servants, tribals from the Tarai, who lived in a small hut in the back of the Residence. There they played with the children in the family, learned their tongue, and almost began to forget English."

Holmes interrupt his narration with a further question: "Might I ask what language the boys spoke with this family?"

Hodgson thought for a moment. Then he replied: "It is curious that you should ask the question. The family were from a remote area southwest of Katmandu. They came to me as beggars one day, and because of their peculiar dress I asked them to stay so that I could investigate them. At first I though they were of the tribe known as the Tharus, but it became clear to me that their language was very strange and seemed to be related to almost nothing else. Indeed, I later published the results of these efforts. They called themselves Kusunda, and their language the same. They were among the last of this tribe. My sons picked up their tongue rather quickly and spoke it rather well."

It was at this point, said the old man, that he determined that his sons had best leave Nepal, to be raised and educated in Europe, so that they could have the benefits of our civilisation. His sister, Ellen, who was married to a Dutchman and lived in Amsterdam, agreed to raise them, and arranged for their schooling there. Just short of a year after their mother's death, then, his sons and he travelled to Calcutta, where he placed them on a ship bound for Holland. They travelled in the company of an English trader, one Joseph Michaelson, who agreed to deliver them to his sister.

"That was the last time I saw them, for they never arrived. An enormous storm near the Isles of Scilly at the entrance to the Channel forced the ship's captain to divert northwards to St. George's Channel. In vain did the captain try to keep the ship in peaceful waters, however, for the storm's fury damaged it severely, washing many on board into the sea. Mr. Michaelson, seeing that the ship was about to sink, climbed into a small boat with the boys and four other pa.s.sengers. The boat made it safely to the Irish coast with three of its pa.s.sengers, but Michaelson and the boys were washed overboard with one other-lost, and never to be recovered. This news I obtained in Katmandu about six months after their departure in a letter from my sister, who had received word from one of the survivors by way of the ship's company. With my heart heavy, I went to my wife's grave and knelt there. It was a long time before the grief was lifted from me."

Hodgson rose slowly from his chair and went over to a large almirah near his desk. He took from it an alb.u.m which he handed to me, saying: "You may wish to take a look at some of these drawings and photographs. There are herein the only pictures of my late wife and my two sons."

As Holmes looked through the alb.u.m, the old man returned to his chair opposite, a look of great sadness on his face. Holmes became engrossed in the old volume, for these were perhaps the original photographs of the Residence, its staff, and other personages of Nepal, including a ma.s.sive photograph of General Bhimsen Thapa, autographed for Hodgson.

"The history was of no interest to me, however. I turned until I found what I had been looking for: photographs taken in Calcutta just before Hodgson put his sons on the ill-fated ship that carried them towards Europe. Among them were large portraits taken of the two boys, Joseph and James, separately, at the ages of seven and five. Despite their young age, there was no doubt as to who they were. The high foreheads, the piercing eyes, and the cruel mouths, were unmistakably the same as those of my greatest enemies. The loss of a doting and loving mother, their abandonment to strangers by their father, and the deep scars left by the storm at sea, had so cruelly disturbed them that their intelligences became misdirected. They had survived somehow the great storm. Taken into some poor and miserable household on the Irish coast, they were raised in bleak and stony poverty. Reaching early manhood, they left the stern and cruel circ.u.mstances of their childhood that had all but made their future criminal careers a certainty, and entered the larger world of London and Amsterdam. Or so I surmised, for we shall never know this part of the story.

"I must have been engrossed in the photographs for a good long time, for when I looked up, the old man was sound asleep in his chair, his long white beard now touching his knees. I placed the alb.u.m on a nearby table, and rather than trouble or embarra.s.s him, I tiptoed out, closing the door behind me. That evening I returned to London."

With these words, Holmes brought to a close the long narrative of his sojourn in Katmandu. We sat for a moment, looking at the empty square before us, each absorbed in his own thoughts. Then we walked slowly home in the darkness.

THE CASE OF ANTON FURER.

IT WAS IN THE SPRING OF 1884 THAT SHERLOCK HOLMES first mentioned the name of Anton Furer.

"Remember it well, Watson," he said grimly. "This man has a brilliant future in crime unless he is apprehended soon. I myself have been on his trail several times in the last few years, but he has always eluded my grasp. Someday, however, I shall rein him in."

I felt the same iron determination in his words that I noticed only when he was after an opponent he deemed worthy. It was well over a decade later, however, that the matter was finally resolved. In going over my notes for this episode, I found that, early on, Holmes had given me a short sketch of the beginnings of Furer's career.

Furer, as his name would indicate, was of German extraction. His father had been born near Hamburg, where he had been a petty dealer in antiquities. Some years after the failed revolution of 1848, the family emigrated to England where they settled in London. Anton was born soon after their arrival. The father, Julius, opened a shop in Finsbury, but it was a failure. Unskilled in English and impatient with his life, the elder Furer borrowed heavily, and rapidly found himself in debt. Unable to discharge his obligations through honest means, he embarked upon a career of burglary and theft. Here his luck was better than it had been in honest business. He began by stealing antiquities from other shops, then moved on to housebreaking, stealing from large mansions in the city as well as in the countryside. He formed a small gang who continued the dirty work of thievery for him, while he himself became the chief purveyor of these goods to collectors in America.

From an early age, Anton helped his father. Beginning as an apprentice to one of the gang members, he rapidly learned the skills of burglary, safecracking, and the quick disposal of stolen treasure. So skilled did the gang become that very often there was no trace of their illegal entry, only a blank spot where a painting was missing from a wall, or an empty s.p.a.ce on a bedroom table where a jewel box had once stood.

Julius Furer, now at the height of his career, invested his ill-gotten gains in legitimate business and purchased a large house in London, where he rapidly became one of the city's most celebrated hosts. By this time his depredations had become truly international. Several thefts from the Louvre, including the removal of Ma.s.signy's "L'Adonis" and Vernet's "St. Sebastian," were later found to be the work of the Furer gang.

After several years of uninterrupted success, father and son finally overstepped themselves when they tried to intercept a large shipment of Egyptian antiquities destined for the British Museum. One of the gang was seized, and confessed. Julius Furer was arrested, convicted, and jailed. He eventually died in prison. Anton, however, being in Alexandria at the time of the discovery, escaped into Upper Egypt and disappeared entirely. He was presumed to be dead, supposedly having been killed by one of the gang who had escaped with him and was later apprehended in Addis Ababa. Holmes alone believed that he was still alive, for he sensed his presence through the bald reports in the newspapers of art disappearances and archaeological depredations throughout the world.

"But are you sure, Holmes?" I asked him one day. "How do you know that it is indeed Furer who is behind these crimes?"

The latest report was before us, one that spoke of the disappearance of several pieces of sculpture from a museum in Constantinople.

"My dear Watson, if one follows a particular criminal for a time and carefully studies his methods, it is easy to recognise his hand at work, just as if one had a photograph of the scene at the time of the crime. In this way, one easily distinguishes among criminals. Thus, I know for instance that Furer is involved in the murder of Roger Dannett, but not in the recent attempt to steal several antiquities from the Victoria and Albert."

"For the life of me, I do not see his connection with Dannett," I said.

"You know my methods, Watson, apply them," he said impatiently.

I was about to object that knowing his methods was useless without his talent and knowledge, but even as he spoke, the faraway look that I had seen so often on previous occasions had already pa.s.sed into his eyes, and I knew that I would hear nothing more from his lips that day. His great brain was absorbed in the solution of some other crime, and it would remain so until he had solved it or had gone as far as he could without moving from his favourite armchair.

Holmes never mentioned Anton Furer again, and it was only a decade or so later that I learned of his subsequent career. It was late in the afternoon one day in June, 1895. It had been a particularly warm day. Holmes had been excessively moody and complained about the lengthening days and his inability to sleep. He had once again taken to cocaine. As I was expostulating on its bad effects, Mrs. Hudson knocked and announced that a gentleman was here to see Mr. Holmes.

"Halloo, Watson, perhaps I shall not need the drug after all. You may save your remonstrances for another occasion." He pa.s.sed to me the card which Mrs. Hudson had just given him: Col. C. H. Ridlington, O.B.E. Ret. 5th Royal Gurkha Rifles, Old House, Wyck Rissington, Gloucestershire.

"Do show the gentleman in, Mrs. Hudson."

Colonel Ridlington was a tall, florid man of once muscular build, attested to by his military carriage, but he had grown an enormous paunch which bore witness to a very sedentary life in recent years.

"Please sit down, Colonel Ridlington, and allow me to introduce my trusted friend, Dr. Watson. You may speak before him with the same confidence that you may before me."