The Oriental Casebook of Sherlock Holmes: Nine Adventures from the Lost Years

by Ted Riccardi

  “Extraordinary luck, Holmes,” I said laughing, “considering your interest in disguise and charlatanry.”

  “It was a room of Cagliostros, Watson, and I add the curious but interesting morsel that, according to some philologians, ‘charlatan’ is the only word that comes into English from the Mongolian and it does that through the Italian language.”

  We both laughed heartily, and he continued.

  “But of even more importance, Watson, was the fact that Gorashar’s salon was also one of the places where the most important matters of state were transacted. Monk, merchant, secret agent, Tibetan as well as other officials, mixed and made the arrangements that influenced the lives of the Tibetan people, almost all of whom were ignorant of what transpired late into the night in the confines of this one house. No contrast was greater than that of the daily life of the ordinary Tibetan, with its hardships and religious piety, but with its mirthful laughter as well, and the evenings at Gorashar’s, where the piety of the monk, the mysticism of the saint, the integrity of the ruler, and the honesty of the peasant, were often transformed into their dark opposites. One would think that in this atmosphere I would have come upon a clue, a trace, a word slipped into a conversation—even incidentally—about Manning, but there was nothing. This absolute silence paradoxically became the only clue: it was as if a command had been issued on high that even the name ‘Manning’ was not to be uttered. If the silence was absolute, then so must be the fear.”

  As the first weeks passed, Holmes’s frustration grew. Yet he knew through his long experience of crime that if he persevered, his very presence in Lhasa would eventually force something to surface. Manning had disappeared completely, and every inquiry in his regard was greeted with a blank stare.

  As in so many difficult cases that he had lived through in the past, however, there was a sudden and abrupt change. Events began to move rapidly, so rapidly that within two days he began to see the first dim outline of what had transpired before his arrival and what was about to unfold before him.

  The first of these events was most extraordinary. One morning, a curious scene, seemingly unrelated to his mission, led him to the first clue. It was near noon, and he had walked already for almost two hours through the crowded bazaar to the outskirts of the city. A sentry stationed near the city wall prohibited him from venturing any farther and he turned back. The sun was already almost too bright to endure, and he sat for a moment under one of the few nearby trees. At that moment, a large man appeared in front of him, dragging the remains of a dead yak, leaving it to rot only a few yards away. A group of wild street dogs that had followed, ravenously hungry, began greedily gnawing at the abandoned carcass. Suddenly, a large group of vultures gathered in the sky above and descended, their large wings flapping furiously. These obscene creatures, abhorrent in their habits and appearance, began to fight for their rights to the carrion. A battle of loathsome proportions ensued, a battle in which the dogs, smaller in number but no less ferocious, were forced to retreat from the scene by the talons of these demons from the sky. In defeat, however, the wild dogs took their toll: one of the vultures lay mortally wounded, blood flowing from its neck, a strange unearthly noise emanating from its beak. As soon as they had finished with the yak, the other great birds descended on their moribund companion, and in a few minutes had reduced the unfortunate creature to a second pile of bones gleaming in the noonday sun.

  It was only then, after the vultures had flown away, that Holmes noticed something stuck to one of the dead vulture’s talons. It had glinted in the sun. He walked over and saw that it was a piece of metal. He tugged it free. It was a brass button, obviously of English manufacture. There were several black threads still attached to it. It bore the letters WM, the initials of William Manning. He placed it in his pocket for later scrutiny. As he turned back towards the city, he found himself staring at the Potala. Only then did he sense how that immense edifice dominated not only the city of Lhasa, but his mission as well. The secret of Manning’s disappearance may lie within its walls, he thought. Eventually, if all else failed, he would have to gain entrance to it and pursue his search within its vast chambers.

  Holmes returned to his lodgings and spent the remainder of the day in his room in thought, pondering his find of the strange monogrammed button, and struggling with the implacable silence that Lhasa presented. How did the button find its way to its gruesome location? For the first time since his arrival, he feared for Manning’s life.

  Towards nightfall, having made little progress in the mystery of Manning’s fate, he decided to attend Gorashar’s soiree once again. As he walked into the great central room, he saw Dorjiloff and Yamamoto for the first time. They had been in Drepung since his arrival and had just returned. Behind them in the dimly lit smoke-filled room Holmes could see a ring of dark shapes formed by the criminals and cranks whom he had come to know inhabited the holy city. They appeared to be in deep conversation with Octave Mirbeau, a French doctor visiting Lhasa whom Holmes had met previously. As Gorashar introduced him, Holmes noticed that Dorjiloff was shorter than he remembered but looked exactly like his photographs. Dressed in Chinese red and gold brocade robes, his bald head, dark pointed beard, and piercing dark eyes gave him an almost mad, satanic appearance. He moved with singular grace, and his robes did not hide his lithe and muscular build. He nodded pleasantly enough when Holmes was introduced by Gorashar. He looked directly into Holmes’s eyes but made no sign that he thought that he was anything other than the botanist he claimed to be.

  Yamamoto was very different in appearance than memory served. He was a slender man, and his movements were those of one who was well acquainted with buritsu and the other Japanese martial arts. His head was too large for his body, however, and his thick glasses and large ears gave him a grotesque appearance that magnified the malevolence of his gaze. Mirbeau, there to treat the Grand Lama for an undisclosed ailment, was holding forth about his experiences in Lhasa. Holmes had found him to be an entertaining fellow, whose English was minimal, however, and the conversation proceeded almost entirely in French. The doctor was an acute observer of Tibetan life, and had been given special privileges by the Regent. This enabled him to see things that Holmes had not, including the disposal of the dead and several executions. He had even visited a group of criminals on display in what he called le jardin des supplices, or the Garden of Punishments, a place that Holmes assumed was just beyond where he had been stopped by the guard that very morning. Mirbeau appeared to have a veritable thirst for the disciplines and punishments of Tibetan life, all of which were well concealed from the view of the foreigner.

  “Behind high stone walls, they wander in cages set about their heads,” he said, “their hands unable to reach their mouths, so that they must rely on the charity of the people to survive. One of them is near death. In Tibetan eyes, his crime was particularly serious: he used a gold alloy in his paintings of the Buddha rather than the pure metal. The buzzards sit and wait for him to expire.”

  Mirbeau went on, recounting more of what he saw, and as he spoke, Holmes realised that the place of criminal punishment could indeed be where Manning was. As Mirbeau talked, his eyes wandered across the room, and he noticed walking towards them a most beautiful woman. Tall, with long, raven black hair, she moved quickly up to Mirbeau. She was Tibetan but spoke French as well as English. Mirbeau introduced her as Pema, a princess of Amdo, a northern province of Tibet, and wife of Pasang, a princely official in the Tibetan Government who had been recently reported killed in a battle in Kham. She stood silently, nervously glancing around her, and then said in a whisper to Holmes, “He is still alive.”

  Yamamoto suddenly appeared by her side, and the princess became at once visibly nervous and uncomfortable at his approach. She seemed anxious to communicate something further, but after her quick whisper, Yamamoto took her firmly by the arm, bade good-bye to our host, and led her from the room.

  Several other guests left shortly thereafter, and as the cr
owd thinned, Holmes noticed Dorjiloff staring at him from across the room. He motioned to Holmes to join him. Standing at his side was a short, sallow man with a large moustache whom Holmes judged to be Rastrakoff, Dorjiloff’s accomplice.

  “So, Dr. Sigerson, you are a naturalist, I understand.”

  “Yes,” Holmes replied, “and there is much to study here in Tibet.”

  “I study only the people,” said Dorjiloff with a laugh. “And I pay great attention to all visitors. Tell me about yourself, Mr. Sigerson.”

  As he spoke, Holmes was aware that Dorjiloff examined and weighed every word he uttered, for he was there to make sure that no one entered Tibet who was inimical to Russian interests.

  “Wherein lies your main interest, Dr. Sigerson, in plants or animals?’

  “In both,” Holmes replied.

  “How so?”

  “Because I am interested in poisons. . . . and their antidotes.”

  “How interesting, Dr. Sigerson. And which poisons in particular?”

  “There are many here in Tibet. Belladonna, I see, grows everywhere, and certain arachnidae seem to have proliferated.”

  “You know of the wolf-man?”

  “Yes, of course, a deadly species, but imported from outside . . . like certain snakes.”

  “Ah, then, you must be familiar with Kruger’s work.”

  “Yes, Giftschlangen und Schlangengift is one of the few volumes I have brought with me.”

  “And you know Gunther’s work of course . . .”

  “I worked with him in London.”

  “He is the first to report on—”

  “Agkistrodon himalayanus, the Himalayan Viper. According to Mellins, the great herpetologist of China, a recent import. . . . from Mongolia.”

  “You know the story—”

  “Yes,” Holmes said smiling, “the king cobra hidden in the golden funerary urn. A distinct surprise.”

  “Still, there are few snakes in Tibet.”

  “The examination of that assertion is at the core of my research. I shall present you a copy of my monograph when it is complete.”

  “I shall be most honoured, Dr. Sigerson. One final question. You are familiar with the work of Sebastian Moran?”

  “In all its aspects,” said Holmes.

  “So am I,” said Dorjiloff.

  “By the bye,” said Holmes with a smile, “I bring you greetings from the family of the late Sir Samuel Soames of Liverpool.”

  Dorjiloff’s face darkened but he did not reply, for at that moment, Gorashar announced to those who remained that the Regent Tsarong had arrived and was about to enter. Everyone rose at once. Two guards, with drawn swords, entered, followed by the Regent himself. Those who remained in the room bowed as he passed.

  The most powerful man in Tibet walked slowly and deliberately, nodding only once so that the remaining guests would take their seats. Except for his red robes, there was no colour in him beyond silver and white. He was as tall and straight as anyone Holmes had seen in Tibet, thin to the point of emaciation, so thin that the lines of his skull stood out boldly on his shaven head, from the back of which hung a long silver braid. His face was indeed that of the old battered photograph, far older but the same imponderable one. His eyes were grey behind his spectacles, bright with a silver light, what the Tibetan texts refer to as the light of asceticism. His skin was exceedingly pale, almost translucent, and he had a full white beard of the greatest fineness that partially hid his mouth. He wore the simple robes of a monk. Though he walked with long, firm strides, Holmes judged him to be well into his eighties. He took his place with the Grand Lama’s brother and sister and began to play the Chinese game of mah-jong.

  In a few minutes, Tsarong beckoned to Dorjiloff. He in turn summoned Holmes, and they went and sat in Tsarong’s small circle. Dorjiloff acted as interpreter.

  “Doctor Sigerson, I welcome you to Lhasa,” said the Regent softly. “Your stay will be a fruitful one. And a long one, if you choose.”

  “I thank you for your kind words,” Holmes replied. “May I know when I may pay an official visit to the Potala?”

  “We are aware that certain tasks may have been assigned to you. The Tibetan Government has decided, however, that it will receive no official guests until further notice. In your case, you are welcome to pursue your researches. As long as your purpose remains a scientific one, you will be welcome. Any change in your activities, however, will result in immediate deportation outside the confines of Tibet.”

  Dorjiloff smiled as he translated the Regent’s last words. The Regent’s face remained expressionless. To Holmes, for the moment at least, they appeared to be at one: what had been communicated to the Regent’s office appeared to be known to Dorjiloff. Apparently bonded in the mysteries of Tibetan mysticism, the Regent and this dangerous Russian monk were acting in concert. The aim could only be to bring Tibet under the protection of the Tsar, and to block British entrance into Central Asia. Sobering too was the thought that the Tibetan Government had now refused to deal officially with a British emissary, albeit secret, recognising only the disguise of the scientist, not the identity of the agent.

  The Regent nodded, ending the interview, and Holmes rose and left the circle. The Regent left shortly thereafter, with Dorjiloff in his company. Holmes stayed on, and it was well past midnight when he said goodnight to his host. Gorashar smiled and said, “You have enjoyed the evening.”

  “I have indeed. And I hope that I may continue to come.”

  “My house is open to you. And so that you reach home safely, I will send my servant with you.”

  “That will not be necessary,” said Holmes.

  Gorashar smiled again. “I fear that it is,” he said as he let forth a puff of cigarette smoke.

  A sturdy young Nepalese boy appeared from the shadows, and Gorashar instructed him to accompany Holmes to his quarters. The boy was from the hills of central Nepal and belonged to a tribe called Gurung. His name was Purna Lal, and he later was to become indispensable to Holmes.

  The darkness was pitch-black in the narrow lane. Purna Lal walked several feet ahead, silently checking the path ahead. Holmes could find his way even in the dark, however, having trained himself to do this over a number of years. Still, he was grateful to have someone to accompany him. How grateful, he was to learn, for Gorashar’s latest help was to be apparent at once. They had just reached the end of the lane, and in the moonlight that now flooded their path, Holmes saw a dark figure grab Purna Lal from behind. He rushed forwards instinctively, but the Gurkha needed no aid. In a swift movement, he disabled his assailant and was about to despatch him, when Holmes caught his arm in mid-air, his Khukri at the ready. The large knife fell to the ground harmlessly, and Holmes found himself gazing at a prostrate Yamamoto, his face filled with terror at his close brush with death. Holmes seized him as he tried to rise and ordered Purna Lal to bind his hands with his scarf.

  “Come this way,” said a voice in the darkness.

  Holmes turned and saw the princess Pema standing behind him. Dragging the unwilling Yamamoto with them, they followed her to the end of the lane, where they entered a narrow courtyard and then passed into the hall of a large and regal house. The princess Pema directed them to a small antechamber.

  “Do not release him,” she said, glowering at Yamamoto. “He is a murderer who should be destroyed!”

  “‘Fear not, Madam, he will not trouble us further,’” answered Holmes.

  “He is one of those responsible for the cruel plight of Manning,” she said.

  “How so?” asked Holmes quickly, for her remark was the first reference to the British agent that he had heard since his arrival.

  “From the day of his arrival,” she said, “Manning lived nearby, in a house owned by my husband. We were introduced to him by the merchant Gorashar. We found him to be a most congenial guest. We had no idea at first that he was an agent of the British Government. Gradually, he became a close family friend. When my husband was k
illed in Kham he was a great solace to me and my family. It was not many days before your arrival here, however, that at the instigation of this man, he was arrested and taken to the garden of tortures, where he now lies close to death. An order was issued by the Regent that the presence of Manning in Lhasa was not to be acknowledged by anyone. Even his name could not be uttered on pain of death. I have tried to keep him alive by paying the guards to feed him, but I have been prevented from seeing him myself more than once.”

  “‘Why was he arrested?”

  At this point, the woman hesitated and appeared to have difficulty in continuing her story. “Manning had become enamoured of me,” she said with difficulty, “but kept his affection to himself. When the news of my husband’s death arrived, he showed the greatest kindness to me. Then, after some time had gone by, he revealed his affection and asked me to marry him and to leave Tibet. Since no Tibetan woman of the nobility may marry a foreigner, I refused. Yamamoto learned of Manning’s offer to me through a treacherous servant who overheard our conversation. The matter became public, and not even the Regent could intervene on his behalf. There was a public outcry. I was protected by my family’s position, but Manning was placed first in a prison cell in the Potala, then in the garden of punishments in an iron cage in which his arms were pinned. He is there still. He cannot eat or drink unless he is fed. He is helpless. My servants say he is now near death. He has been taunted, tortured, beaten, and is no longer himself. They say his mind is almost gone.”

  At these words, Yamamoto became agitated. “Manning is a British spy,” he hissed, “and deserves his fate. And you also are a British spy,” he said to Holmes as he vainly tried to free himself from Purna Lal’s grip.

  “You are in no position to engage in idle accusations, my dear Yamamoto,” Holmes responded, “for in addition to working for the Imperial Government of Japan, you have a previous history that unfortunately for you is even more sordid than your present occupation. Must I remind you of the Nakamura affair in Shanghai in which you played a major role? Or more recently, of the assassination of General Chen in Canton?”