“We shall send four of our men to Europe to retrieve the half-manuscript. It will take time because we have to determine exactly where it might be. Venice has been mentioned. But it may be elsewhere. We must coax the owner of the parchment to give it to us. Either free or for money. If not, we shall use force.”
“How will you find out?”
“The Guardians always maintained a network for any eventuality. In Europe, there is a famous man, Professor Moriarty. We shall take his help. He knows everyone and everything. He will help us, of that we are sure. We have helped him in many other situations in Morocco. Recently, we have been spying for the French for him. You would not be aware of the politics of this region.”
“Very well.”
“Meanwhile, we shall prepare to travel to Timbuktu immediately after getting the first half from Venice.”
“Why not travel immediately?”
“We must travel with you and the half-parchment. It may be necessary to show it to someone in Timbuktu. We do not know. Also, the trip to Timbuktu is long. While in the desert, we cannot contact anyone in case anything were to happen or we were to receive some news that requires us to change our plans.”
“I see. Therefore, what do you recommend?”
“We recommend, O Master, that you stay here. We shall create detailed plans right away and keep you and Ibn Zayid informed.”
I stayed in the luxurious mansion in Casablanca for several weeks. I received many interesting pieces of information from time to time.
1.A Guardian went to Venice and made inquiries. He strongly believed that the parchment was in the museum, perhaps unknown to the curator, simply because Marco Polo had donated all his papers to them.
2.The curator was then asked by letters to return the half-manuscript in his possession. However, he ignored the letters.
3.An attempt was made to burgle the Venice museum. The Guardian who made the attempt felt sure that the half-manuscript was in the museum because he was able to glance at something in the Chinese section that looked suspicious. But before he could examine the matter further, he was surprised by a guard. In the scuffle, an alarm was raised and the guard was severely wounded. He had to escape. He said that he became doubly sure because the curator and the priest of a famous church travelled the next day to Rome to meet the Pope. Immediately thereafter, the curator travelled to meet a detective in London and to consult a famous friend in the British Museum.
4.Two Guardians attempted to kidnap the curator in London but failed.
5.They found that the curator had given a copy of the document to an expert in the British Museum who promised to do something, and then explain the matter to the curator. However, when two Guardians attempted to acquire the copy and his translation, the expert burnt both while battling them. He was seriously injured but survived.
6.They again tried to get the half-manuscript from the curator once he returned to Venice but discovered that he had already been killed. His room was searched thoroughly in any case. The half-manuscript was not found, suggesting that he had handed over the document to someone, possibly in London.
7.The detective in London disappeared in Switzerland. We suspect he has the document, the original half-manuscript.
8.They do not know where the detective is. There was a rumour that he went to the Vatican again, but we could not confirm it.
I was finding it very difficult to understand all this. I was, after all, a humble merchant, suddenly immersed in a very complicated matter. Even though I was not personally involved in these acts, the strict instructions of my forefather five hundred years ago were resulting in all kinds of things happening even today!
I asked Boughaid if there was some way in which I could send my wife and sister some money for them to sustain themselves. He told me that Ibn Batuta had not only set up the Guardians of the Letter but had also kept aside some money for his descendants.
“This mansion, O Master, belongs to you. We are mere custodians and have been so all along. And we have kept accounts very carefully for you. I request you to check and ask us any question you feel like. I can arrange for a thousand gold coins to be sent to India immediately, if it is your wish.”
I was not sure how to react. I could only stammer, “Please do,” as I silently thanked my benefactor, Haji Ibn Batuta.
Tangier and Holmes
Holmes always had the ability to surprise me in the most unusual ways. The letter from Tangier was just the most recent. For some time, my head swam with the realization that he was alive, while all this time I had been labouring under an illusion that he was no longer with us. As I reflected and traced back events, I realized that it was not particularly surprising that he was in Morocco. No doubt the issue of the half-manuscript parchment was still unresolved.
I consulted Mary on the matter and was delighted to receive her wholehearted acquiescence. “A man like Sherlock Holmes does not simply fall over a ledge at a waterfall and die, John. I never believed that ridiculous story. How gullible people are! I am not surprised he is in Morocco. I would have equally well expected him to be in America, India, Japan, or Australia.”
“Would you like to come with me?” I asked.
“No. I would come in Mr. Holmes’ way. I shall wait for you to return from your adventures. I hope you do solve the mystery of the manuscripts.”
I had confided to her about the mysterious matters in London during her countryside sojourn in 1891.
And so, as planned, I set out to Gibraltar. A short sail later, the ship docked at Tangier. I looked at the approaching town with pleasure. The blue sky, the whitewashed buildings, the gulls in the harbour, the colourful clothes of the inhabitants—it was a refreshing change from the drabness of Liverpool and London.
I walked down the gangplank from the ship, and asked a customs officer for suggestions for lodging. He named a few places quite close by.
“Where is the Casa Barat, my dear sir?”
“Not very far. It is a rather unremarkable market. Very few visitors go there. But you may get some cheap bargains. It is actually on the way to the hotels I suggested.”
I left my baggage at the cloakroom at the port and strolled down to the souk, enjoying the sunny weather. In a few minutes, I reached Casa Barat, which seemed a noisy place full of confusion. I walked in, and avoided all the merchants who tried their best to attract my attention.
At a quieter garment store, I saw an old man sitting with his back to the wall. He watched me approach. I nodded, as did he.
“English?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“May I know where I can find Mehdi Benbouchta?”
“Mehdi Benbouchta?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm. Please continue down. Look for a shop selling hats—fezzes. You will find him there. Just six or seven shops down.”
“Thank you.”
He nodded.
I found the shop and asked the young man there, who was busy arranging fezzes on display, if he could direct me to Mehdi Benbouchta. He looked at me for a moment and responded.
“Yes, I am Mehdi Benbouchta. How may I help you?”
“I was asked to meet you to take me to my friend.”
“His name?”
“Sherlock Holmes.”
“What is the password, please?”
“Rihla.”
“Thank you. I shall take you to him. Half an hour away. I must bring my grandfather with me.”
He went into a room behind the shop and came out with a stooping, very old Moroccan man. He must have been at least eighty years old and seemed to be blind with cataract.
“Good afternoon, my dear sir,” he said in accented English, in a high-pitched quavering voice.
“Good afternoon. Are you Mehdi Benbouchta’s grandfather?” I asked.
“Yes, I am. He is
a good boy. Is there anything I can do for you? Do you wish to buy some dates or perhaps a fez?”
I did not think there was anything he could have done for me. “No, thank you.”
“Mehdi has many friends. Too many,” he grumbled, putting on his fez and adjusting his prayer beads, as his grandson appeared with a bag and a cloak.
“Indeed?” I responded politely.
“Some are dangerous. Some are lazy. I tell him to be careful. But who listens to an old man?” He started grumbling in Arabic.
We started walking out of the souk. Mehdi very kindly supported his grandfather, who leaned heavily on his right shoulder as he struggled along.
“Can he walk the distance?” I whispered to Mehdi.
“Oh, yes. Don’t worry.”
We crossed a little road and walked very slowly for another twenty minutes.
“My knees. They are paining. Also my back. And I have difficulty seeing. Old age problems,” grumbled the old man, quite unhappy about the situation.
“One must take care with diet and exercise.”
He broke out in a flurry of Arabic, which I thankfully did not understand. Mehdi listened patiently, while letting his grandfather rest even more heavily on his broad shoulders.
We reached a nondescript building in a little alley.
“Mr. Holmes is here,” said Mehdi. “Let us go up to the second floor.”
“Second floor? Won’t that be too much for your grandfather?” I remonstrated.
“Not at all! They are good friends and meet every day!” grinned Mehdi.
I could hardly imagine Holmes being taken by the querulous old man and becoming “good friends,” but then again, his tastes were unpredictable.
We walked up, step by step, with Mehdi’s grandfather huffing and puffing and muttering in Arabic under his breath, while holding on to his young grandson’s shoulder.
We entered a spacious and well-appointed room.
“This is where Mr. Holmes lives,” said Mehdi.
“It seems comfortable. But where is he?”
“Right here, my dear Watson,” came a familiar, confident voice behind me.
I turned.
Mehdi’s grandfather had miraculously straightened out. His face had become younger. Gone were the wrinkles and the cataract eyes. And standing in front of me was that dearly loved, familiar face.
I was speechless.
“Holmes!” I cried, finally.
Mehdi held me as I tottered.
Holmes, too, had stepped forward quickly and helped ease me into a chair.
“This is impossible, Holmes!” I cried, stupefied. “It was you all along!”
And then I fainted.
When I came to, Holmes and the young man were hovering anxiously above me, fanning me and sprinkling water on my face.
“Watson, my apologies, my dear fellow! I could never have guessed you would be so severely affected! It was just a little joke!”
I got up slowly and sat back in the chair. I looked long and deep at my old friend, back from the dead. The sharp features, the intelligence, the alertness—yes, it was him. There was no doubt about it. Sherlock Holmes was alive and well and with me in Tangier.
Mehdi returned with coffee and some dates, insisting that I have them to regain my strength.
“What is going on here in Tangier, Holmes? Why were you dressed up like an old Moroccan? “
“I shall explain everything, Watson. First, let me introduce you to my good friend Mehdi, whom you have already met. He will be helping us prepare for a long journey.”
Mehdi bowed. “I am an assistant to Mr. Holmes’ friend, Mr. Said aṣ-Ṣabār, a prominent lawyer in Morocco. I travel with him sometimes between Tangier and London. I hail from Casablanca and that shop belongs to my family.
“And now I must leave and return to my family shop. If you authorize me, I shall have your luggage picked up from the cloakroom at the port office. Please stay here as my guest.”
“Thank you.” I gave Mehdi the details he needed and he left Holmes and me together.
“And will you now tell me how it is that you are alive while the rest of the world labours under the delusion that you are not?”
“All in good time, Watson. It was easier than you could imagine. But at the moment, we are seized of a larger problem.” Holmes took a chair and leaned back, after taking out his pipe and slowly refilling it.
“Concerning the manuscript?”
“Yes.”
Sherlock Holmes told me about his escape from Reichenbach and his subsequent visit to Venice and Rome and how it came about that he managed to find a position in Tangier as a representative of the Pope. He was as comfortable in the Vatican as a renowned detective as he was in an old grimy market in Tangier as a grumbling old grandfather. And now he was masquerading in Tangier as “Father Andrzej Bąkiewicz,” with the explicit permission of the Pope, in order to find a parchment of unknown origin and import!
“In brief, Watson, I was thus far comfortable at the prefecture rooms in Tangier, though I was taken aback when Colonel Sebastian Moran paid a visit. Bishop Landel is a rather uninspiring representative of the Vatican at this outpost but there are deeper waters.
“When I heard that he was visiting, I felt my room would be searched. But on my return that evening, I found nothing disturbed. I have a hunch, but not much more. I may have to take a leave of absence in case you and I have to travel shortly, which I think is a strong likelihood.
“This is a complex place, Watson. If you are prepared to accept people as they seem to be, all is well. But then if you probe deeper, you discover unusual relationships that transcend even time. I have reason to believe, Watson, that the missing piece of the puzzle, someone who has triggered this entire chain of events, is in Morocco. But first tell me, my good fellow, how is your health?”
“I think I have never felt better, Holmes. The sunshine and clean air here are quite bracing.”
“Hmm. Will you be up to crossing the Sahara with me, Watson?”
“Absolutely, Holmes. You must decide, knowing this place better than I do, whether I would be a hindrance or an aid.”
“I would not have called you if I felt you might create an unnecessary twist. There is no one I would trust more, Watson. But I wished to hear it from you.”
I was quite touched. “I hope to assist in whatever capacity you deem fit, Holmes.”
“I did inspect the road to Sijilmasa and I am confident we will be fine. That is where I wrote my letter to you, from the oasis there.” Holmes had an admirable knack for going into details. Planning, he had once said, wins half the battle.
He continued. “Let us get into the details of preparation. Please consult Mehdi on the most common ailments that a desert traveller might experience. And the relevant medications needed. Then please prepare for a journey of at least a month, likely more, in the most hostile terrain.”
“Yes, Holmes.”
“And read this book,” Holmes tossed something across.
I examined the book, which was the English translation of something called the Rihla. “I appreciate your interest in the classical literature of this country, Holmes. But is this the time for it?”
“If ever there was a time to read the Rihla, Watson, it is now. Everything here is related to Ibn Batuta. Please read every page and absorb it completely. This man defines Moroccan identity as no one else. Whatever we have experienced and will experience is connected to his legacy. And a word of caution. Under no circumstances should you ask anyone if they have heard of the Guardians of the Letter. This is the secret group that is behind the attempted thefts, the murders, and assaults in Europe. Unfortunately, they take their job very seriously; they have a duty that has been handed down over five hundred years and they will do anything to fulfil it. They are absolute fanatics. If they he
ar of anyone asking about them, they go to violent extremes.”
“Do you have the half-manuscript, Holmes?” I inquired.
“Yes, it is safe. Our task is to determine where the other half is. I think I know, but we shall need help.”
“Where is it?”
“It is in—“
We were interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps outside our door. Holmes slipped his hand into his pocket—I presume he had a revolver.
It was Mehdi and he had arrived with my bags and Holmes’ violin.
“Here you are, Dr. Watson,” said Mehdi, handing over the bags.
“Thank you.”
He turned toward Holmes. “We should leave immediately, Mr. Holmes.”
Sherlock Holmes raised his right eyebrow. Mehdi’s agitation was noticeable.
“I understand that some men, likely the Guardians, visited the prefecture church a few days ago and were asking for you. As we had feared, the news about a Father saving the life of a Tuareg and apprehending a magistrate has spread rapidly. I am sure they heard about it and want to find out who you are. They are intelligent people.”
“In other words, we need to leave for Timbuktu immediately.”
“Yes. I have no doubt they will follow you. The sooner you leave, the better. Hasso Ag Akotey and his group are in any case almost ready to leave. I have three horses outside. Shall we go?”
In a few minutes, after Holmes transformed into Father Andrzej Bąkiewicz and I took on the guise of a Moroccan wearing a traditional jalaba, we were racing at a clip across Tangier and to the east. I had an opportunity to take in the sights of the pleasant city of Tangier with the backdrop of the Mediterranean and, in the far distance, the Atlas Mountains.
We finally reached an open field where quite a large number of Tuaregs had assembled. It was a sea of indigo, black, and white—a pleasant sight.
“These are the Ahaggar Tuaregs,” Mehdi informed us. “They are traditionally from the south of Algeria and Mali, but spend a lot of time in the border areas between Morocco and Algeria. That man there is the chief that Sherlock Holmes saved. Hasso Ag Akotey.”
Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years: Timbuktu Page 10
