Sherlock Holmes in the Great Detective on the Roof of the World

by Thomas Kent Miller

  "My priests and I were lulled into an uncharacteristic letting down of our guard by Holly's and Vincey's talk of peculiar pillars and stone symbols, but rest assured, it won't happen again. Henceforth, our country will be absolutely closed to all non-Tibetans. There will be no exceptions. This will be so because I have said it!

  "You sit before me and are accused, and you have heard the unassailable evidence against you. What have you to say?"

  As the Dalai Lama spoke, I couldn't help but notice that Sigerson struggled to restrain himself from smiling. Apparently this was noticed by the High Lama as well, who said, "Mr. Sigerson, you find the facts amusing, l see."

  "I only find amusing, sire, that so many good, intelligent men make so much of so little. A man trained in the powers of observation and reasoning could reach a far different conclusion from the same facts."

  " Explain" The boy looked especially grim at that moment.

  "Since no one actually saw the crimes in question, someone who wanted to put my friends and I under suspicion could easily have planted the evidence you listed. Do you truly think I am so stupid that I would empty my pipe at the site of a murder I've committed? Or leave incriminating footprints? No, Your Grace, we did not leave behind those clues...but I assure you that someone did."

  "Who would you suggest?" the boy asked.

  "That would be difficult to say without a thorough investigation, though I do have some ideas along those lines.... Your Holiness, it so happens that in my professional duties in my home country I have dabbled in police work...investigations and such...and I have had some luck. You might say I have something of a knack in clearing up crimes. I beseech you now, if you are truly interested in finding both the guilty party and the missing tome, to take the shackles off me!"

  The Dalai Lama was quiet for a time. We three merely stood before him. I for one felt rather foolish and was glad when the youth spoke again.

  "Sigerson, I'm not sure why, but I am inclined to trust you—or rather, I'm not so stupid that I don't understand that if you three are executed, we may never find the sacred book. At least if you have a degree of mobility, you may lead us to the prize either out of carelessness or luck or skill. We will see what we will see."

  "Your Grace, you will not regret this decision," said Sigerson.

  "Naturally, however, your two friends must remain incarcerated to guarantee your reliability."

  Horace and I both reacted sharply to the news. I don't think it is necessary to go into detail except to say I don't think I ever saw Horace so hot under the collar—the presence of His Holiness or not—except with the possible exception of his reaction to hearing the accusations against us some days earlier.

  And, also, any idea that we might have had that we were alone with the Dalai Lama was quickly dispelled by the sudden appearance from around the entire perimeter of the room of a score of guards—who then vanished as rapidly as they appeared at a sign from the boy.

  Sigerson, as to be expected, took both this news and the appearance of the guards with aplomb.

  "Your Holiness," he said, "that would be inadvisable. I gather you wish to recover your property. I can guarantee that you will never see it again unless I aid you, and I will not aid you unless I can have the assistance of my two friends."

  Well, you should have seen the look on the young High Lama's face. It was rather as though he had just been informed that he had just ingested poison or had been bitten by a snake. The internal conflict wafted across his face: He was unsure whether to recall the guards and have us thrown into irons or to hold his royal temper and submit to Sigerson's demand. Fortunately, his last signal apparently had been a command to the effect that the guards leave the room entirely, for I'm sure that had any Tibetans been in attendance, the act of saving face would have been paramount and perhaps none of us would have seen another day. As it was, the young fellow seemed to count to ten, take a breath, look at Sigerson with renewed respect and finally say, "Your terms are difficult, Sigerson, but not impossible. You may have your assistants, but for each of you there will be three royal guards accompanying you at all times."

  Sigerson smiled. "Agreed, Your Holiness. Capital!"

  Chapter IV

  The Dalai Lama's Story

  As chaotic—almost dreamlike—as this whole episode seemed as we lived through it, the interview of the Dalai Lama by Sigerson that followed remains in my mind as the strangest, the most dreamlike. As I sat there in this Oriental hall on the far side of the world, surrounded by Golden Buddhas and all manner of alien accouterments, I watched Sigerson stretch out his long legs and steeple his hands below his thick beard, close his eyes and thereafter fasten on every word the boy uttered.

  But here is the worst of the dream: As I watched the scene, I suddenly had the strongest impression of an English drawing room. I blinked and for a moment I thought I saw upright chairs with red velvet seats and backs, fine china set on a polished table, and newspapers scattered about. All during the interview, so long as Sigerson's eyes were closed and his attention was rapt on the Dalai Lama, I felt drawn to that room.

  But that is neither here nor there; the things said by the boy should be the focus of this narrative at this point. The starting point of the Dalai Lama's story was Sigerson's query: "Pray tell me about the missing item and the circumstances of the death and theft."

  That which follows is the boy's story. As you will see, it left much to be desired.

  "Paljori was our honored and most revered librarian since the passing of Brother Tzu, Paljori's mentor, forty-five years ago. Part of Paljori's glory was—and this has never been mentioned to a non-Buddhist, non-Tibetan in millennia—was in the guarding of a holy book that has been handed down through many generations of librarians. The book itself is virtually worthless except for a few high lamas, for whom, of course, it is priceless. Its main value is its cover and box, or case, which are inlaid with gold and encrusted with jewels and are worth a fortune (from a Western perspective). But, what good are gold and jewels to a good Tibetan? None! That is why suspicion fell on you Europeans.

  "What is your saying? It is worth a king's ransom. It's no wonder you would take it. But I forgot, in order for you to 'find' the missing item, I should not judge you in advance."

  (You notice I felt it necessary to place find in quotation marks above. The reason is that the youngster's tone was such that he made it clear he never doubted our guilt.)

  "However," he went on, "Brother Sun-Li, Paljori's apprentice, entered the library, as is his habit, two hours before dawn of the morning in question and found poor Paljori dead with a ceremonial sword through his heart. He was slumped over his prayer rug.

  "Brother Sun-Li immediately told the first monk he encountered and in short time, Brother Wan-Po, our revered chief police monk, whom I believe you've met, was at the site of the murder. In short order, he had deduced the guilty parties...and the rest you know."

  The Dalai Lama fell silent and observed the three of us with a kind of twinkle in his eye; I suppose because he considered the whole thing a game.

  Well, my feeling about this is, if you make a child a god, then you have a childish god. But as has been mentioned before, the young Dalai Lama is not the real power; his powers are limited until he comes of age. My God! What if a fourteen-year-old boy became Prime Minister of England! Can you imagine it? It beggars the imagination!

  But this aside is not pertinent to our situation, so I'll go on. Needless to say, our lives were in the young fellow's hands and any inclination toward mercy that he showed was appreciated. In fact, his show toward us was the only indication of mercy at all that had been granted us thus far. Despite his immaturity and his behavior with us, it was not he who had put us in this predicament. It was Brother Wan-Po.

  Sigerson opened his eyes at the conclusion of the High Lama's tale and stood up abruptly.

  "Well then, let us be on our way. I must see the scene of the crime. Call your guards or whoever you wish to accompany us. The
game is afoot. Time is being wasted."

  Chapter V

  The Monk of Long Ago

  So it was that half an hour later, we were once again in the great Lhasa library with its thousands of ancient texts—one-time domain of the late Brother Paljori, Head Librarian.

  Our nemesis, Wan-Po, was already there with his retinue. As we entered, I couldn't see that he was doing anything other than swaggering pompously hither and thither, his yellow robe swishing and his nose stuck in the air. It seemed probable that his presence was due to some messenger being sent out to inform him of our mission, and he saw fit to be there at our arrival, more to hinder us, I suppose, than to help us.

  "The murderous Europeans, I see, come to obliterate the clues pointing to their guilt."

  Sigerson would not be baited, however. He merely looked coldly at the rogue and asked, "Where precisely was the body found? In order to pursue my investigation I will need your cooperation. Tell me what you can, every detail you remember. This is by order of your most revered Dalai Lama."

  Wan-Po didn't appear concerned by this information. Doubtlessly, he already had received word to the effect that Sigerson was to have his way. Wan-Po would obey his sovereign's command, but he wouldn't like it.

  "So be it!" he said a bit too sweetly for my taste and shot to attention but not, as I said, with a bit of sincerity in his attitude. "Over there is the table at which Paljori sorted and catalogued new volumes as they arrived from the various monasteries of the realm. Beyond that is the alcove where he customarily prayed. There, slumped forward, a sword in his heart, his body was found."

  Sigerson proceeded to the spot and surprised one and all by pulling a small magnifying glass out of a pocket, then, falling to his hands and knees, examining the floor and walls between the table and the alcove.

  He occupied himself thus for about ten minutes, totally ignoring the varied sounds of consternation that emitted from Wan-Po, who grumbled and moaned and stamped his feet for the duration about his time being wasted and similar pointless concerns. I say pointless because the chap was such an inferior sort by any standard that, so far as I was concerned, Tibet would be better off if he found elsewhere to spend his time.

  In any case, Sigerson was now examining the table and the books that were neatly piled at both ends.

  "These books!" Sigerson shot. "Have they been moved since the incident?"

  "All is as it was," Wan-Po replied. "Only Brother Paljori's remains have been removed."

  Sigerson's reply was, "Hrrumph!" Then he continued inspecting as before with his magnifying glass. Horace and I were dumbfounded by Sigerson's behavior. We spoke between ourselves and agreed that his mere physical presence and level of energy seemed to fill the place.

  Finally he stood, turned abruptly to Wan-Po, and asked, "Where was your precious volume kept? A secret cache perhaps?"

  The monk didn't seem to want to respond. He delayed his response sufficiently long that Sigerson made another noise of frustration.

  "Are there exits, or doors, or rooms or other secret portals in the immediate vicinity?"

  Wan-Po still didn't reply, though it appeared as though he was trying to say something. Finally, Sigerson stepped over to a shelf behind the table, where there were piled many long books with board covers from goodness knows when, reached behind and did something, and suddenly, a section of the wall adjacent swung open on a kind of hinge, revealing a passageway behind.

  Wan-Po and all the other monks in attendance gasped in astonishment, then spoke rapidly amongst themselves. Wan-Po exclaimed, "More proof of your guilt! How would you know of the cache unless you had been here before when it was open...and stolen its contents?"

  Sigerson didn't even honor this remark with a rebuff. He grabbed the nearest sweet-smelling butter lamp and crossed the threshold, glass in hand. We all made our way slowly down the passage, which was about forty feet long, following Sigerson. At the end was a wonderful room, a true secret chamber, hung with gold fabric and elaborate rugs and infinitely detailed paintings of historical scenes. As the lamp flickered, the metallic contents of the room sparkled, highlighting different quarters at different times. As interesting as the general ambiance of the room was, the nature of the scenes depicted in the paintings and rugs drew our special attention.

  The main character was a Buddha-like figure, but not Buddha—that is to say, not the typical Buddha image. And the scenes were of this figure speaking to crowds. And there was another figure in attendance, a sort of compatriot to the thin Buddha.

  Sigerson glanced around, didn't seem at all surprised by anything he saw, and stepped over to an elaborately carved wooden chest which was centered on a shelf along the back wall. He moved the chest aside and revealed a niche in the wall just big enough to hold a typical Tibetan book. Of course, it was empty.

  Now Wan-Po positively gloated. "What more proof do I need?" he asked of those clustered in the small room. "With each passing minute, the man establishes his presence at the scene of the atrocious crime."

  With admirable restraint, Sigerson continued to ignore the man's pompous remarks. Horace and I looked at one another as though to say, "My my, he does seem more than passingly familiar with the layout of the place...." Finally, after a few minutes of crawling around on the floor and peering into literally every corner of the room, Sigerson stood, positioned himself against a wall, folded his arms, and said, "Please, explain to me what this room held...in precise detail, if you will."

  Wan-Po opened his mouth, with the intention of objecting, I'm certain, when Sigerson made a quick reference to the Dalai Lama, and the inspector monk groaned, and relayed the following history:

  "For many centuries, a particular text, detailing the life of a beloved monk who lived long ago has been hidden in the very niche you see there. During the life and reign of each Dalai Lama, only three people at any given time know of its existence: the Dalai Lama, the head librarian whose duty it is to guard the text, and the chief of police monks.

  "The text is of little importance except for ritual purposes; however, the boards that have covered the volume have over the centuries been inlaid with gold and decorated with jewels. It can't be imagined that the text was stolen for its own sake, but more likely for the value of the cover."

  " Who was the monk whom you think so highly of?" Sigerson asked.

  "His name was Issa. He lived long ago. It is said he knew Buddha himself, but that is only a story."

  Sigerson mulled over what he had heard for a while, dropped his glass into his pocket, took one last look around and said, "I must see the body."

  Wan-Po was taken aback by this. "Why, that is impossible. The vultures have taken him to heaven."

  I suppose that for those uninitiated into the ways of Tibet that an explanation is due at this point. Because Tibet has little ground worthy of agriculture, most of it being rock, or rocky moraine, centuries ago the natives developed the pragmatic ritual known as "sky burial." It is simple enough: In lieu of ground to bury them in, each dawn undertakers chop to pieces the bodies of the recently deceased and feed them to carnivorous vultures, which Tibetans believe to be sacred beings that take the souls of the dead to paradise.

  Chapter VI

  An Undertaker and a Doctor

  Shortly thereafter, we found ourselves in the southeastern corner of Lhasa, where Sigerson sought to interview the "Disposers of the Dead," or morticians, at the sky burial site. Despite our familiarity with the subject, having tarried in Tibet at length, Horace and I exchanged glances of disgust. There had apparently been a "service" only recently, as there was a pool of blood in the middle of the clearing, and the air still smelled of the pine and cypress that was burnt to attract the vultures.

  Wan-Po, who had belligerently accompanied us, spoke to one man explaining our mission. Sigerson, as might be gathered by now, was not one to waste time. He immediately introduced himself and began to fire a barrage of questions. He then took the undertaker aside by the arm and the two of th
em spoke in muffled voices for a time, the undertaker occasionally looking towards Wan-Po, as though seeking guidance, though not receiving any from the disgruntled monk.

  While they spoke, I looked around. On three sides we were surrounded by gray outcroppings. A swarm of perhaps twenty-five vultures circled high overhead. Probably they had only just finished their meal as we had arrived.

  Certainly, the vultures of Tibet are uncannily spoiled. Beyond what I've explained in passing, there are also these details to share, gentle reader: Following the dissection of the corpse, the first thing the undertaker does is remove and pound the bones, mixing them with tsampa—roasted barley flour. This mixture is fed to the vultures first. In this way, no mortal remains are left. Once every morsel of the corpse is devoured, the birds take flight. The soul is set free.

  Finally Sigerson grunted approval and ventured back to our group.

  "Capital!" He seemed to actually gloat. "Now I must see Paljori's rooms!"

  Paljori, it proved, lived in a small one room apartment adjoining his precious library.

  Wan-Po showed us through with a contemptuous bow. Sigerson proceeded as before, instantly taking command, bustling about, glass in hand, peering in every corner, crevice, and crack. The room itself was similar to other monks' rooms, so far as I could see, which is to say, it was identical in sparseness.

  We were there about five minutes when Sigerson rushed through the opening that served as a door and demanded of Wan-Po to see the chief medical monk. Once again we traveled the breadth of the city, and we were introduced to Brother Linga, the very fellow who helped diagnosis Horace's heart condition. The meeting proved to be the twin of the one with the mortician—hushed whispers out of earshot.

  Finally Sigerson came back to our group and told all present that he would like to spend a quiet evening with Horace and myself in his rooms, and that in the morning he would announce who, without doubt, the murderer was and also locate the missing priceless tome.