Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years: Timbuktu

by Vasudev Murthy

  “But let us now look at our own interest in this matter. Marco Polo, his father, and his uncle, travelled to China with the oil from the lamp in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem that Kublai Khan had asked for. The Khan was fascinated with Catholicism and wanted a hundred priests to educate his people. The new Pope, Gregory X, was unable to oblige. He sent two priests, but even those two returned in fear after noticing the grim situation in Armenia. The Poli were truly brave and unusual persons and the Church is grateful to them. The correspondence regarding this matter is in the archives.

  “In the year 1323, in a private conversation that he had with the Pope John XXII, which the Pope recorded, the ageing Marco Polo claimed that the parchment bore an incantation that guaranteed eternal life, provided it was performed in the right manner at a particular spot in the Nile Valley. Unfortunately he did not recall the map and was also sketchy with details as he was, by then, rather feeble. Some say his memory was already eroding. Further, he did not bring the parchment with him to Rome from Venice, so it seemed like mere hearsay and the natural ramblings of an old man. The Pope merely recorded the matter. Marco Polo died shortly thereafter and everything was forgotten.

  “But when Father Agnelli here arrived with the patriarch of Venice and the historian Antonio Rozzi, he showed us the parchment and my interest was piqued. I checked the archives for documents of that period out of curiosity, and found that note about the meeting from Pope John XXII. I realized that there was something more to the matter. I informed the Pope—his Holiness here—who advised the severest confidentiality and then called Lord Dufferin for his advice.”

  “And I suggested that you, Mr. Holmes, be consulted,” said Lord Dufferin, smiling. “I know you, of course, in the context of the Sumatra question and the rather vexing issue of the Manitoba land surveys.”

  Holmes nodded imperceptibly but did not respond.

  “I believe,” interjected Father Agnelli, “that the reason why this matter has suddenly come up is because someone has possession of the other half and has come to a conclusion similar to ours. They would like what we have. This is what I have told Signore Holmes.”

  “I agree,” nodded Father Ciasca. “The fact that the guards noticed a possibly Arab burglar and you too have observed men wearing fezzes, and the notes in Arabic, which I have read, suggest that someone in the Maghreb has the other half. The handwriting suggests a Moroccan influence.”

  He continued. “I have read about your alleged death at Reichenbach Falls. I dismissed it immediately, as did Lord Dufferin, as being a most convenient conclusion. I somehow sensed that you were seeking anonymity and would reach us soon. And that is what you have done. We think this helps us, provided you are willing, of course.”

  “And what specifically do you have in mind?” inquired Holmes, his eyes closed.

  “If you agree, we can keep you safely at the Roman Catholic Prefecture of Tangier in Morocco while you conduct your own investigations into the matter. You will be, of course, more than adequately compensated. The task is quite simple—find the other half of the manuscript and bring it back to us. If it falls into the wrong hands, think of the consequences.”

  “I see,” said Holmes, his fingertips together, his brows furrowed, and his eyes on the ground. “But I certainly wonder, Father Ciasca, what you would do with it. Would not possessing the entire document, if that were possible, create a new problem? And if the other claimant is genuine, why should he not equally be entitled to acquire this half?”

  The Pope and Father Ciasca glanced at each other.

  “A perspective we acknowledge. I can only say that if we assume that the parchment came into the hands of Marco Polo first, with the permission of Kublai Khan, then he must be the rightful owner. We have no evidence to the contrary. Since he went to China on a mission that had our explicit blessings, we feel that whatever he found belongs to us in some way. Further, given the violence involved thus far, and since the other party has not found it necessary to approach us formally and peacefully for the other half, his intentions are likely malevolent. I suspect that a very powerful entity is behind this and he is willing to go any extent to get it back. He has possibly employed all his resources in Europe toward that end. That means you may be safer in Morocco than Europe.”

  “I agree,” said Lord Dufferin. “On our part, we can keep the matter completely under wraps and will continue with the story that you are dead. You can correspond with me through the Tangier prefecture, though we have a diplomatic presence there. The fewer persons you know the better. “

  “I accept,” Holmes agreed. “There is no way to determine how long I shall be in Morocco and whether I will even find the manuscript. Let us agree on two or three years.”

  “I have made arrangements for your departure tonight in the escort of one of my assistants. The prefecture in Tangier will provide you with rooms and an allowance. You will go as Father Andrzej Bąkiewicz, the new official in charge of accounts at the prefecture. You are Polish and know little of Italian. That would be useful because the present bishop at Tangier is a Belgian, Hubert Landel, who generally keeps to himself. Would that be acceptable? Even the head of the prefecture will not be made aware of your real identity.”

  “Yes, that would be acceptable.”

  “I have prepared the documents for your appointment. You will be briefed about other details by my assistant in about an hour.”

  The meeting was over.

  Holmes bowed to the Pope and to Father Ciasca. The Pope blessed him and Father Agnelli in turn.

  As they stepped out of the Vatican, Lord Dufferin pulled Sherlock Holmes to one side. “Eternal life be damned, Holmes! Keep an eye out for the French in West Africa! We need your eyes and ears there to tell us what the French are doing. They’ve been colonizing West Africa and creating difficulties for us. Dahomey, Mali, Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia—a bit too much, I say! Well, we’ve been sloppy too! Send me a note from time to time if you pick up some useful information, would you? You have a gift, my man! Here’s my card, just in case you run into trouble.”

  “You would like me to spy for you, Your Lordship?”

  “Yes! Find that mysterious parchment, by all means. But if you find something else, why not? And by the way, your brother Mycroft is in the know and he approves. Good day, ‘Father Bąkiewicz.’” He rolled his eyes, smiled, tipped his hat, and left.

  Father Agnelli came out slowly.

  “I do not know when I shall meet you again, Signore Holmes. I wish you good luck. For the memory of my good friend, Antonio Rozzi, I pray that you will find what you seek.”

  The two shook hands. Father Agnelli turned slowly and departed.

  A smiling young man appeared at Holmes side. “I am Giovanni. Father Ciasca’s assistant. I shall now take you to the guest rooms to help you prepare for the journey.”

  ***

  In Paris, an old man rocked slowly in a chair. His eyes were closed for a very long time. Perhaps two hours.

  Suddenly, they opened wide.

  In absolute comprehension.

  Tangier

  Travel the world and then live in Tangier

  In the words of “Father Andrzej Bąkiewicz”:

  Giovanni, Father Ciasca’s assistant, was an intelligent and cheerful young man of about twenty-five summers. I gathered his role was to provide protection and take care of administrative details.

  Some twenty-four hours after my meeting with the Pope, we were on a ship from Naples to Tangier. I spent time in quiet reflection. I really had no idea what to expect. I would have to do everything on my own and there was to be no one in Morocco to help me. What was I looking for? A parchment that would guarantee eternal life? Poppycock! I was amused but could see no harm in the diversion. In any case, a murder had indeed occurred and ambassadors, Popes, and other important individuals were relying on me. I hoped I had given Professor
Moriarty the slip.

  Giovanni did not know my real identity and believed I was indeed Father Bąkiewicz from Warsaw. He travelled regularly between Rome and the prefectures along the Mediterranean Rim. We spoke little, with language being the principal and convenient barrier. The sea was calm and the ship comfortable, and we reached Tangier soon enough, after a brief halt at Sardinha. I felt the breeze go through my hair while the sun beat down on us. The sea was a brilliant blue. I had half a mind to ask for paints.

  But every few minutes, my mind went to the half-manuscript in my personal effects. Who wrote it? Why? How did it reach China? What was so important about it that Marco Polo felt the need to tear it vertically and leave half in the city of Calicut in distant India? Had someone since picked it up and understood its importance? Where was that person? Was I escaping from him or nearing him? Was the fact that the script of the notes been in an Arabic style suggesting Moroccan influence enough reason for me to travel to this country?

  Bishop Landel had graciously come to receive me, having been sent a wire earlier by Father Ciasca. He spoke English quite well and there was no problem in communication. He was a taciturn individual preferring his own company and would spend hours together in prayer, which suited me, since I spent none.

  Tangier was a beautiful town with colour and charm. White and blue were the recurring motifs. I saw all kinds of people at the harbour—Arabs, Europeans, Negroes, and a group of people with blue robes, who I later discovered were called Tuaregs. The men were veiled—but with sharp confidence in their eyes. They were to be my lifeline later. These veils were called tagelmust, I learned, and were very central to their heritage and personal identity.

  “And how is Father Ciasca?” Bishop Landel asked, as we walked together.

  “He seemed in good health.”

  “A gifted scholar. Lost in books but very alert. Have you known him long?” Bishop Landel asked casually.

  “No. I travel rarely to Italy. This is a new assignment so I was asked to visit the Vatican to learn more about the duties. But I am sure I will learn more from you.”

  “Our flock is quite small and our properties modest. There will be little to do except taking care of our creditors, sending reports to the Holy See periodically, and managing the accounts.”

  “I hope to do these to your satisfaction, Father.”

  “I used to know Bishop Józef Glemp in Warsaw once. I wonder what became of him.”

  “I had heard he was well. When did you come here, Father?”

  “Two years ago. I like the place. There is peace and quiet, though it may not seem so, looking at the crowd here.” He waved his hand at the noisy market that we were passing.

  He showed me to my rooms and made me feel quite comfortable. I had an attendant Abu, who took care of various odd jobs in the church, including cleaning the living quarters and cooking for the small number of residents. Father Landel explained my duties, and in a few days, we had settled into a routine of minimal though courteous contact. The books were quite in order and did not seem to present any challenge. I sent Father Ciasca a brief note that I had arrived in Tangier and thanked him for the courtesies extended.

  I decided to learn about the city as a first step and stepped out at the first available opportunity, perhaps a week after I landed at Tangier.

  The city was typically Mediterranean. Cobbled sidewalks, a glorious blue sky, and charming buildings all in white. Despite the bustling markets, the place was quite clean. I was vaguely reminded of Barcelona, and I was pleased to know that artists often frequented Tangier.

  The prefecture in Tangier was quite central in the town and everything looked very pleasant. I decided to let my legs take me wherever they felt like going. It felt liberating to walk anonymously in a foreign city. Nevertheless, I took care to wear my habit and make slight changes to my gait. One can never slack.

  Two Tuareg men walked by, and I smiled and nodded at them. Their faces being covered, I could only see their eyes, but they smiled in return and bowed slightly and moved on. Elsewhere I saw a simple whitewashed mosque set against the blue sea. It was really quite delightful.

  I turned in and out of narrow, uncrowded lanes. The whitewashed houses were all set close together and men and women peered down from the iron-grilled balconies. There was an atmosphere of friendliness, which cannot be explained. It was in the smiles and eyes of the people. The signs were in French: Rue Faquih Abadi, Rue Ben Abdessadak, Rue Ibn Batouta. I liked the sound of the last street and I decided to explore further.

  At the end of the tiny street, I saw a small white structure with a sign in French: Tambeau Ibn Batouta. The Tomb of Ibn Batuta.

  It really meant nothing, but curiosity got the better of me, and I stopped a man passing by and asked him in French if he knew someone who could tell me about the tomb.

  He pointed to a house, like any other, and replied in French. “Go there and ask for Haji Ahmad Bouabid. He is an old man who knows all about Ibn Batuta.”

  I did as suggested, enjoying the little adventure, and knocked on a door.

  “Entather, entather!” someone shouted from within in Arabic.

  The door opened. An old, bearded, slightly bent man peered out with rheumy eyes. He sized me up.

  “Monsieur Haji Ahmad Bouabid?” I inquired.

  “Yes. Come in, come in!” he responded in French, which surprised me for a moment, till I realized that everyone in Morocco, including old men, spoke French.

  I stepped into a tiny room with a low ceiling. I had to bend and squeeze in. The smell of coffee and cardamom hung heavy. On the walls were various Arabic inscriptions that I assumed were from the Quran.

  Haji Ahmad Bouabid gestured to me and I sat down gratefully—though awkwardly—on a thick rug on the floor after introducing myself as Father Andrzej Bąkiewicz, newly arrived in Tangier.

  “I visited Roma when I was a young man,” said Haji Ahmad Bouabid, smiling with the recollection. “I am happy to see you. You must have coffee.” He shouted out something in Arabic and in a few moments, a smiling young man with a fez on his head came in, bowing repeatedly, and poured some thick black coffee into tiny cups. On a plate were dates and nuts. I had my first introduction to Arab hospitality at the home of Haji Ahmad Bouabid.

  “I liked the tomb outside. A man in the street told me that you knew everything about the tomb and the man buried there. Can you tell me about it?” I asked, sipping the extremely bitter coffee.

  “Ibn Batuta? You do not know? He is a very famous traveller of the world! They say that he visited China, India, Yemen, Mecca, Mali—we are very proud of him. Perhaps I am his descendant! Here he is buried!”

  His pride was evident, but I was none the wiser. I waited for him to tell me more; it sounded interesting.

  “He was a Qadi, a religious scholar. He travelled from Tangier to Cairo, Constantinople, Damascus, Mecca, Medina, and Sanaa. And wherever he went he was treated with great respect. He wrote a great book called Al-Rihla, which means The Travels. Never before and never after will there be a traveller like Ibn Batuta. And he lies just fifty feet away from us!” he chuckled.

  “I see. Very interesting. Where else did he travel?”

  “Oh you must read the book! You can get a copy in French in any bookstore in Tangier. How do you like the dates?”

  “Their quality is exceptional.” I nibbled slowly, savouring the unusual sweetness.

  Haji Ahmad Bouabid immediately shouted out, and the same young man came back with a huge plate of dates and more coffee. I understood that the Arabs took hospitality very seriously.

  “He travelled to India and China too. And finally, his last trip was to Mali where he visited the town of Timbuktu.”

  My ears went up when I heard the mention of Timbuktu. I had seen it marked on Signore Rozzi’s map.

  “Timbuktu? When was this?”

  “I
t is difficult to give exact dates. But I see that your interest is genuine. Let me get a book and give you correct information.” He again shouted and the boy rushed in with a very old book, almost in tatters and placed it in front of him.

  “This is the “Al-Rihla” in Arabic,” he beamed. He turned some pages.

  “Yes, he was born in—let me see—your Christian year, 1304! Then he travelled from Tangier in 1325, yes, 1325! He went to Mecca seven times! Seven times! I see that he visited Delhi in India in, perhaps, hmm…1334. He did not like the king, Mohammad Bin Tughlaq, who was mad, ha ha! Then he went to the Maldives. He reached China in, let me see, 1345, yes, yes! Then he came back through India, Persia, and Syria. In Damascus, he escaped the Black Plague. Then he returned to Tangier. Ah, he was not satisfied! No, not at all! He crossed the sea again and went to Andalusia and Valencia, and again he had many adventures. Then he returned to Tangier. In 1351, he travelled to Mali to the city of Timbuktu, a city of gold! Great adventure! Great adventure! Then he finally came back to rest in 1354. The king asked him to stay behind, and he dictated his story to Ibn Juzayy. So Al-Rihla was actually written by Ibn Juzayy, while listening to Ibn Batuta! Is it not interesting?” Haji Ahmad Bouabid was positively beside himself with joy. He must have repeated the story a thousand times but still found it fascinating.

  “Wonderful story! Thank you! And when did he pass away?” I gestured outside at the tomb.