I knew he was not looking for a response. I listened and noticed with great concern his wan countenance, and his forearm punctured with needle pricks.
Precisely at eight, Signore Rozzi presented himself at our door. He seemed slightly disturbed.
“Were you waylaid as you travelled here, Signore Rozzi?” asked Holmes, eyeing our visitor with concern.
“Si! That is so! How did you know?” gasped our visitor.
“The frayed shirt sleeve and the dust on your shoes are conclusive, sir. You would not intentionally attend a formal meeting in such condition. In fact, I was almost expecting that you would not be in a position to keep your appointment.”
Signore Rozzi stared at Holmes, the blood leaving his face. “You are a wizard, si, a wizard! It is so, Signore Holmes. As I was boarding the hansom outside the museum, two men rushed across the road and tried to abduct me. However, I sensed their approach and was able to escape after striking them. The driver was alert and he moved the cab the moment I jumped inside. They did not pursue us.”
“Did you see them?”
“It was dark. I could not see them clearly. London is quite unsafe, mamma mia!”
“As is Rome, Signore Rozzi,” responded Holmes, dryly. “The world is changing. Crime is everywhere. In this case, however, I had a feeling this might happen.”
“Vero? Why?”
“I know that you were being watched.”
“But why?”
“Because you have something or know something important. I think it is the parchment, whose significance is unclear to me. I see seven—no, eight—different possibilities. No doubt you will enlighten us and will prove one of them correct. Please do proceed.”
“I visited my friend Signore James Conway this morning, as you know. He is very knowledgeable about Semitic languages, especially the classical ones. I must tell you, Signori, that Meroitic as a language became extinct after the Byzantine era, but was common much before the arrival of Jesus Christ. There are many variants, of course, and this parchment’s alphabet is from one of them. I knew all this before I came here, but Signore Conway was likely to be the best person to help. It also happens that he has a reputation of being a practical scholar, by which I mean that he travels a lot to correlate theory with facts.”
Holmes nodded.
“When I showed the parchment to Signore Conway, he was very excited. He held it against the light and exclaimed many times. At last, he turned toward me, his face flushed with excitement.
“‘Do you know what you have, Signore Rozzi?’ he asked me.
“‘No,’ I said. ‘But it seems very old and valuable. And there is a map.’
“‘This is not Aramaic. It is likely Meroitic or a variation of Old Nubian. A Nilo-Saharan Nubian language! A very rare document indeed!’
“‘See this and this slightly clearer one .
“‘The first is a reference to the God Ra and the second is, I think, to Osiris. But I am guessing, and need time. This is a script that’s been a mystery for most scholars. We do not have something like the Rosetta Stone3 to help us, so it is all conjecture and intelligent guesswork. Fascinating, fascinating!’
“Signore Conway’s eyes were bright with excitement and he was positively dancing with joy. ‘I think—I hope—we have a beautiful poem! A wonderful poem or a chant! WonderfuI! It could be some form of chant, because I see that there is alliteration. I think this is Osiris, here. And I think it has a connection to a place indicated in the map. Some kind of funerary chant, perhaps? Remarkable!’
“How do you know it is a chant?” I inquired.
“He said, ‘Because Meroitic was written from right to left, like Hebrew and Arabic, and there appears to be alliteration, and we have the left half. I do not know for certain, as I am not an expert. What we have are the ends of sentences. But the letters are unclear and I do not recognize most of them, which is not surprising.’
“Signore Conway paused then. ‘I can guess some words. abundant, water, soul, light, life…But I need time. And of course, without the other half, how do we know what this is? Let me remind you that we may be able to pronounce the words, but we may never know what they mean. I am amazed that this manuscript was found in Peking and brought back by Marco Polo! How did it even reach China? How wonderful, Signore Rozzi!’
“‘Si!’ I said, ‘You are right! This is a great treasure! But why would someone want it suddenly and be prepared to use a knife?’
“‘Of that, I have no idea. Do you wish to leave this in my safekeeping?’
“I hesitated. ‘No, Signore Conway. I do not have permission from the Patriarch. But I have made a copy for you. Will it help you?’
“He was disappointed.
“‘I understand. Well. I think I will need at least three months to come to a conclusion and I do not know if I have the knowledge for it. But I shall try. Can you come again in April? Say the twentieth?’
“‘Of course!’ I answered.
“Then we discussed other areas of research and passed the day pleasantly. Thereafter, we had an early supper at the museum and I left to visit you. That is when the incident happened.”
Holmes was lost in thought.
“Intriguing. Written threats in Arabic from Morocco. A case of bodily assault, possibly by Arabs. A murdered museum guard in Venice. Half of a parchment written in Old Nubian or Meroitic. A letter in French by Marco Polo. And a report from Wiggins about rumours in the London underworld,” Holmes murmured.
Signore Rozzi looked bewildered. “Wiggins? Arabs? What do you mean, Signore Holmes?”
“I am reasonably sure you were attacked by Arabs, Signore Rozzi. And my sources have already told me that you are being looked at with interest. It could be because you have the parchment. Or there could be some other reason.”
“Should I leave this parchment with you then, Signore Holmes?”
“I thought the Patriarch did not give you permission to leave it with anyone.”
“No, he has given me permission to leave the parchment only with you, on the explicit order of the Pope.”
“Why is the Pope interested, I wonder. Well then, that probably explains it. These things cannot be kept secret. An indiscreet word here and there and clever people conclude that a man is travelling to visit the well-known detective Sherlock Holmes in London with the encouragement of the Pope and the British Ambassador.”
Holmes smiled. “Do leave it with me, by all means, though I decline to guarantee its safety. It is you who must now be careful. I recommend you take the eleven o’clock overnight ship from Dover to the continent and then proceed to Venice. In case you hear from Mr. Conway, do let me know.”
“I agree. Thank you.”
Signore Rozzi handed over his valise, bowed and left.
Holmes and I were silent for a good ten minutes.
“A noteworthy case, Watson,” he said. “And yet, I can presently make nothing of it. Someone wants this parchment. He probably has the other half. There is some secret here that is of relevance to even the Pope. The script is very difficult to decipher. Men wearing fezzes have already been observed by Wiggins and were seen at the museum in Venice, too. Intriguing. Music may provide the answer.”
Holmes turned to his violin and began playing. Strangely enough, it was an Arabic tune. I had no idea that Holmes was acquainted with that kind of music.
***
In a few days, the aforementioned events retreated from our minds and Holmes busied himself with issues pertaining to the Scandinavian question and the brutal Charing Cross murders. The latter was relatively straightforward to unravel, though it needed patience, which Holmes had in abundance. The former was more complex, and Holmes was forced to consult his brother Mycroft more than once at the Diogenes Club. I returned to my home, leaving Holmes to the ministrations of Mrs. Hudson.
***
That was the first time he spoke of Professor Moriarty.
He described him in great detail, as a master criminal, a spider at the centre of a web responsible for crime everywhere, but always impossible to specifically charge. Holmes expressed respect for the professor’s intelligence, and I listened in silence, slightly disturbed. You may wish to read about those events in detail in my publicly told story “The Final Problem,” in which I speak of our travels to Europe and the purported disaster at Reichenbach.
The events that shook the public in May 1891 are still fresh in my mind. The reports of Holmes’ fatal plunge down the Falls were greeted by the public with shock and consternation. A much-loved figure had been lost in the most alarming manner at the hands of a master criminal. The world despaired—how could evil be allowed to triumph over a man as beloved as Sherlock Holmes?
Yet Holmes had left behind, at Reichenbach, a courteous letter, perhaps hoping to soothe the outraged sentiments of the law-abiding citizen, and to console me.
My Dear Watson,
I write these few lines through the courtesy of Mr. Moriarty, who awaits my convenience for the final discussion of those questions which lie between us. He has been giving me a sketch of the methods by which he avoided the English police and kept himself informed of our movements. They certainly confirm the very high opinion I had formed of his abilities. I am pleased to think that I shall be able to free society from any further effects of his presence, though I fear that it is at a cost that will give pain to my friends, and especially, my dear Watson, to you.
I have already explained to you, however, that my career had in any case reached its crisis, and that no possible conclusion to it could be more congenial to me than this. Indeed, if I may make a full confession to you, I was quite convinced that the letter from Meringa was a hoax, and I allowed you to depart on that errand under the persuasion that some development of this sort would follow. Tell Inspector Patterson that the papers he needs to convict the gang are in pigeonhole M., done up in a blue envelope and inscribed “Moriarty.” I made every disposition of my property before leaving England and handed it to my brother Mycroft.
Pray give my greetings to Mrs. Watson, and believe me to be, my dear fellow
Very sincerely yours,
Sherlock Holmes
I believed—and there was clear evidence—that Holmes and Professor Moriarty had fallen off the cliff and met an unfortunate end in the furious waters of the falls. The signs of a bitter scuffle, the letter he had left behind—there could be no doubt.
I was subsequently interviewed by several newspapers of repute. I met dozens of grieving devotees of the great man, and his friends at the French Sûreté and at Scotland Yard. The unfortunate matter took several months to settle down.
I swore to myself to keep Holmes’ memory alive. I organized his papers and personal effects and kept his violin aside with great reverence. My wife aided me in what was to us a sacred task. We had lost a remarkable friend and human being, who embodied so many of the qualities that define excellence in human endeavour.
I owe the public an apology.
It is time to reveal that Holmes had not died.
My story was written in ignorance.
***
In May 1893, about two years to the day after the events of Reichenbach Falls, I received a letter in a familiar script.
The envelope was stamped Tangier, Morocco, but the handwriting stirred memories. I knew no one there, and yet…
I opened the envelope carefully. And inside was a brief letter from Sherlock Holmes.
April 19, 1893
My Dear Watson,
This letter will undoubtedly come as a surprise, though I shall hope it will be a pleasant one.
I am about to embark on an important journey. I cannot do so without you by my side. Much depends on the success of this mission across unfamiliar and hostile terrain. I am not in a position to explain more.
I have enclosed a ticket for passage from Liverpool to Tangier via Gibraltar on a ship by Compania Transatlantica for the 15th of May. The journey may not be comfortable but it will prepare you, it is my hope, for a much longer and more arduous journey.
When you disembark at Tangier, ask for Mehdi Benbouchta at the Casa Barata souk (market) and introduce yourself by name. The password, should he ask you for one, is Rihla. He will bring you to me.
I would certainly appreciate the accompanying transport of my violin.
Very sincerely yours,
Sherlock Holmes
Oasis of Tafilalt
Eastern Morocco
3From the desk of the chief archaeologist at Poisoned Pen Press: In 1963, Dr. Nicholas Millet, curator of the Egyptian department at the Royal Ontario Museum, did uncover something in the Nile Valley called the Adda stone, which was helpful but not conclusive.
A letter from Haji Ibn Batuta
to his son
Bismillah ar-rahman ar-rahim
This letter, my son, should have been given to you by a member of the Guardians of the Letter, two families that I have sworn to secrecy and will help you on an important mission.
I have spent my life travelling and perhaps I have travelled far more than any man ever has or will. To see so much and to learn so much—verily, I have been blessed by Allah. How many can say they have visited Mecca seven times? How many have been to China, Andalusia, India, and Mali?
I have described everything, as far as I could remember, in Tuhfat al-Nuzzar fi Ghara’ib al-Amsar wa-’Aja’ib al-Asfar4,, which others call Al-Rihla (الرحلة) (“The Travels”). I beseech you, my son, to ensure that your sons read my words and become pious and humble. The customs and languages of the people whom Allah has created are all different, and must therefore be respected, even if we lack understanding. I may not have liked, for instance, the behaviour of the black cannibals near Timbuktu, who smeared themselves with the blood of their victims before prostrating in front of Sultan Mansa Sulayman. Yet, as a traveller, though a Qadi, I had to keep within some boundaries, as I had learned at a cost in my early days as a traveller in India, when I was somewhat brash.
For what I have seen everywhere in the world, my son, has been a desire to live long. Allah has granted us an exact number of breaths. But we, in our greed, ask for more. Death is the only thing that seems to truly bind together everyone everywhere in the world.
In all lands, I have seen this greed, my son. In Damascus, in Sind, in Yemen, in Kathay, in Serendip—no one truly believes he will die, and is therefore unprepared. Each hopes for some secret to be revealed. No matter how unhappy, no matter how poor, no matter how lonely—all beings hope to live forever. I must tell you this strange tale, because I am now too aged to find what is missing and solve a mystery as old as man.
As you know, and as I have said in Al-Rihla, I left the court of the moody Mohammad Bin Tughlaq in Delhi on a mission to China, and came to the west coast of India after many difficulties. From Khambhat in Guzzerat and down Kambay and Honnavar, I finally came to Calicut. And there again, as you know, I had many occasions to visit, marry, and to suffer setbacks and become wealthy. None can say what Allah would have us experience. How often have I been robbed and assaulted and how often have wealth and fortune smiled on me again.
During a particular period, while I wait
ed for the winds to die down, I sought and received the friendship of the Zamorin. He was a good man and was interested in my travels. We spent many an hour talking about various matters of astronomy, mathematics, botany, and the scriptures. And at some point, he confided in me.
“Haji, God has been kind to send you to me. I have learned much from your wisdom.”
“Allah alone decides who should meet whom and for what purpose,” I responded with a bow.
“I feel that you are the messenger that my father had told me about.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, puzzled.
“Wait here,” said he, smiling, and he went inside his private room and emerged shortly thereafter, carrying something covered with Chinese silk.
During my father’s time, Haji, there was another famous explorer who visited Calicut. He was not a Haji. He was from beyond Persia, perhaps from Rome or Greece. He visited us while returning from China. My father told me he was a wise man, sent by the Chinese emperor on a mission. He had with him a princess whom he was to take safely to Persia to be wed. As you see, there are many Chinese junks that visit us here. Visits by royalty do happen. I know that you plan to visit China once the winds die down.
This man’s name was Marco Polo, according to my father. One fine day, Haji, he visited my father with a strange request. He said that he had with him half of an important document that he wished to have my father keep safely. “There are secrets here,” he said, “and I trust only you in this world to keep this manuscript, waiting for the right man to come and claim it.”
“Who will he be?” asked my father.
Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years: Timbuktu Page 3
