We noticed that the dunes were particularly restive that day and the winds brief, intense and, on the whole, quite unpredictable. The camels were agitated and had to be controlled with greater effort than earlier. This continued for a good forty miles. Once, a few of us were sure we heard music beyond some dunes, but Hasso warned us not to investigate. “These are the tricks of the Djinn. Do not be swayed,” he said grimly.
There were no visible caravan routes as the sand shifted constantly. The leader was very experienced and quite knowledgeable about this section, but had planned his journey using the North Star as a reference, a practice common across numerous cultures.
“Watson, the man ahead of me says that many Djinn here are the ghosts of water-bearers, who died, having gone mad with the heat, waiting for caravans,” Holmes remarked, turning in his saddle to address me at the rear.
“A most regrettable matter, Holmes. I am not one to believe in ghosts but heat and disorientation can certainly stimulate a fertile mind.”
“Yes, quite so, Watson. And the shifting sand dunes remind me of our good friend in Paris, Professor Moriarty. Here one moment, there the next, leaving no trace behind. The only way to tackle him is to be like our friend Hasso—rejecting distractions and being clear about the destination. I find the analogy most helpful.”
At a place where the dunes suddenly disappeared, replaced by a completely flat stretch, we saw what appeared to be a huge caravan in the far distance, heading slowly to the east. It glittered brightly.
“That must be a caravan of gold,” shouted a Tuareg excitedly, pointing.
“Fool! It does not exist,” said Hasso sharply. “It does not exist! It is an illusion. It is the work of Djinn!”
The caravan abruptly vanished, and we then saw a beautiful lake and palm trees to the south west.
“That too does not exist, do not be tempted,” Hasso urged us on. “If you travel there, you will die. Look at those skeletons at the top of that dune. Those are not illusions.”
We passed the forty miles with great difficulty.
Each day was as punishing as the one before. The sun did not relent. One or two of the camels developed problems in their hooves, which slowed the caravan. Their loads were redistributed and that took a little time.
Along the way, at a small, lush oasis with several massive and curious baobab trees where we rested, we had an unfortunate encounter with a snake, which resulted in the death of a young Tuareg. The boy was a cheerful lad who had a talent for singing. He made the mistake on sitting on a rotting log of wood without checking to see if it was hollow. A viper emerged, bit the young man, and went on its way. He did not realize he had been bitten till it was too late. Neither I nor one of the Tuaregs who knew about snake bites could save him. We were grief-stricken.
He was buried near the oasis amidst great sorrow. The caravan continued, considerably subdued. And yet their philosophical perspective of life and death in the harsh Sahara helped the Tuaregs deal with the tragedy with greater equanimity than what I might have thought possible. They sang a slow and beautiful dirge as they left the oasis.
That was the only unfortunate incident we experienced. We had no knowledge of the passage of time, even though we adjusted our movements to travel early, stop for some four hours at about eleven o’clock when the sun was at its merciless high and then travel again till about nine o’clock. Any other plan would have been foolhardy to the utmost.
And then one day, sometime in the later evening, Hasso announced that we would be reaching the famous city of Timbuktu in about an hour. Everyone in the caravan cheered.
At the outskirts of the town, we came to a halt at a resting place for travellers, called Abaradiou. The tall and muscular Negro attendants there took charge of our camels and goods in a familiar way while we celebrated our arrival at Timbuktu after the most arduous journey that either Holmes or I had ever experienced. It had taken us fifty-five days during the hottest period of the year across unimaginably cruel and inhospitable terrain. After resting in the straw huts of the Abaradiou, the Tuaregs proposed to set up a camp.
“You look authentically Tuareg, Holmes,” I remarked jocularly.
“That must change soon,” he responded curtly, his mind already on the pressing matter ahead of us.
His Arabic and Tamasheq had already improved substantially over the course of the several weeks. His innate confidence allowed him to experiment with languages without worrying about making mistakes.
The mud brick architecture of Timbuktu was quite fascinating. Without modern bricks and stone, builders had constructed edifices with mud and wood that had, I understood, lasted for centuries. This was one of the most important towns of Africa, the confluence of trade passages across the continent and from the Atlantic, Mediterranean, and Red seas. I learned later that there was another town called Djenne to the south west with similarly rich history and architecture.
For now, we were happy to have reached our destination. I, Dr. John Watson, who had once seen action in Afghanistan and hoped to spend a quiet retirement reading books, had managed to cross the Sahara and reach a city I had never dreamed I would ever see in my lifetime!
But my intense friend had no time for architecture and history. His was a single-minded pursuit and everything, if not relevant, was dismissed. For once, I wished he would consider writing a monograph about the town.17
Holmes made a few inquiries about the location of the Sankore Mosque, which was fortuitously very close by. He also asked about the political climate in the city, and he received ambiguous replies. The French were indeed everywhere, including near the Sankore Mosque. There was a general air of tension for no specific reason. The country’s political situation was unstable after the final collapse of the Toucouleur Empire. The Tuaregs were generally perceived as restive and difficult, and not in the good books of the French.
Firm decisions had to be made.
After a satisfying dinner, Holmes spent time looking over various documents. Prominent was a map of Africa that he had procured from the Venice Museum.
It had once been the property of the late Antonio Rozzi.
Who is the father of Timbuktu? The Tuaregs.
Who is the mother of Timbuktu? The city of Djenne.
16I must add that Holmes expressed a desire to write a monograph about the music of the Tuaregs. His habit of writing definitive monographs on every possible subject for the consumption of unknown scholars in tightly knit circles invariably irritated.
17Many years later, Holmes did indeed write a monograph, “The properties of the mud bricks employed in the construction of buildings in the historical city of Timbuktu,” in which he dwelt at length on the characteristics, composition, and methods used to make the bricks. He presented the monograph at the Royal Society, and was much feted. Elsewhere, brickbats might have been employed.
Timbuktu—The Sankore Mosque
Salt comes from the north, gold from the south,
and silver from the country of the white men,
but the word of God and the treasures of wisdom
are only to be found in Timbuktu.
The loyal reader who has followed the exploits of Sherlock Holmes over the years would not fault my assertion that he was a man of action.
Unlike his brother Mycroft, who roamed the world while sitting in a couch at the Diogenes Club, Holmes was in favour of decisive and firm movement. There was no question of idling. Everything he did, including playing the violin, starving himself, and even injecting himself with cocaine, was driven by a specific objective. For instance, he believed firmly that drug helped him to think clearly, a matter where I strongly disagreed.
During the months Holmes had been alone in Tangier, masquerading as Father Andrzej Bąkiewicz, he had achieved many objectives. I shall list them.
He had learned about the existence of the secret society, the
Guardians of the Letter. In spite of their grand name, the Guardians had actually degenerated into a group of criminals with international connections. This was not surprising, as such fanatical groups invariably lost their moorings over a period of time and found recourse in crime to keep alive a mystique about them, and to thrive.
Sherlock Holmes had become very familiar with the Rihla and become a great favourite of Haji Bouabid. During this time, he made sure he did not pass any remark that could be misconstrued, and avoided asking questions about Timbuktu or the son in the Maldives. He could now speak and read Arabic quite well.
He read about the Sankore Mosque and its enchanting history. He looked at the various journeys that Ibn Batuta had taken and looked at many convincing permutations for the possibilities he had in mind.
He had become fast friends with the elders of the Ahaggar Tuaregs who happened to be in the Tangier area. After his services to their clan in the matter of saving Hasso Ag Akotey, the Ahaggar Tuaregs had sworn their undying and eternal loyalty to him. He continued to delight them by seeking to learn their language in an earnest and methodical way and by going deep into their history and culture, with specific references to their revered Queen Tin Hanan and their wonderful music.
He kept in sporadic touch with Father Ciasca at the Vatican. He was informed that there were no further attempts to burgle the Venice Museum. Perhaps the Arabs had concluded that the parchment was no longer there. But there were a spate of attempted burglaries at other museums—the Louvre in Paris, the Madrid Prado, another in Brussels, and elsewhere. There seemed to be a grim desperation. Lestrade too confirmed, via a coded telegram, that historical archives were being targeted. Security had been tightened and a few attempts had been thwarted. The hand of Professor Moriarty was also suspected, but as usual, there was never any direct evidence. A Professor of Mathematics from Lyons at the Louvre. A soldier just back from Nairobi visiting his sister in Munich. An army physician newly returned from Poona on vacation in Antwerp. Why had they shown a remarkable interest in the archives and exhibits? Holmes knew immediately, but kept his counsel. He had listed at least eighty-six ways in which Professor Moriarty would make attempts to ease his agents into the museums.
Lestrade also warned him that despite the warmth between Scotland Yard and the Sûreté, diplomatic tensions were on the rise. The French wanted to consolidate their position in North and West Africa. The Foreign Office had suddenly woken up, and confabulations were on at the highest levels. There was awareness of Sherlock Holmes’ presence somewhere in Africa and there was some hope that he could be a source of information. This displeased Holmes, as he was not interested in undertaking such skulduggery as a formal agent of any government.
But Holmes was surprised when Lestrade hinted that he was possibly being watched. By whom, he wondered, and proceeded to take immediate action. It did not take long to suspect that the man-servant at his apartment, responsible for his maintenance, was also passing on information to Bishop Landel.
To test his hypothesis, Holmes made very casual remarks while Abu was in the room. The remark often came back in discussions with Bishop Landel. And he set up a few mechanisms to be triggered quietly if his personal effects were being searched. A broken thread, a carelessly placed sock, a few coins on the floor in his bedroom—each was a means to determine mischief.
“I am going for a walk to the sea front, Abu,” he said one day. “It is a nice evening. I may just decide to eat outside. Do not prepare dinner unless I return.”
“Yes, Father,” said the attendant obsequiously.
Holmes slipped out of the gates and walked to the end of the road where the church’s compound ended and turned left into the street, ensuring that whoever was watching him was convinced that he was gone.
Then he let himself in through a small breach in the far wall. He prowled through the lawn under the shade of the trees and let himself into the church again through a side door. It was a Thursday evening and only Bishop Landel and Abu were inside the prefecture.
Holmes stood behind the drapes in Bishop Landel’s office after slipping in noiselessly through the open French windows. The Bishop was at his desk, some thirty feet away in a very spacious room.
After a long wait, Abu walked in.
“Well?”
“Yes, Father. He has gone for a walk.”
“Did you check his room?”
“Yes, Father. Nothing, except his notebook where he practices Arabic. He has been doing quite a lot of that.”
“Where did he go yesterday?”
“To meet his Arabic teacher again, Haji Bouabid. And before that, he went to meet his Tuareg friends in the east of the town.”
“Why this interest in the Tuaregs?”
“I do not know yet, Master. One Tuareg even visited him briefly, but I was listening outside and the conversation was formal. This was possibly because of that case he got involved with. He said something about their music too. The Tuaregs are not trustworthy. We Arabs do not like them. And they do not get along with the French, especially the gendarmes.”
“Keep a watch. I need to keep the French government informed of anything the Tuaregs are planning to do. If Father Andrzej Bąkiewicz works for our enemies, it would be helpful to watch his interaction with the Tuaregs carefully.”
“Yes, Father.”
Abu left the room.
Bishop Landel spent another twenty minutes, writing a few notes. Then he left, closing the French windows barely four feet away from where Holmes was hiding, and then the door to the office.
Holmes waited for a short while and then quietly went across to the table. He looked carefully at what Bishop Landel had written, and reviewed other correspondence.
In half an hour, it was clear.
Bishop Landel was a French spy apart from being a holy man deputed by the Vatican to minister to the Tangier flock.
And Sherlock Holmes was under suspicion for being a British agent, masquerading as Father Andrzej Bąkiewicz.
Holmes did not mind that as much, since this was not quite true, and as far as he could tell, he had not been in any extreme situation where such a conclusion could be arrived at. He wondered how this inference had been reached. Was there a spy in Father Ciasca’s office in the Vatican? But would not such a mole be more concerned about the matter of the parchment rather than the squabbles between the French and the British? Oh yes, it was Lord Dufferin. That made sense. Had Lord Dufferin leaked the matter deliberately or inadvertently?
Holmes shrugged and let himself out of the prefecture gently. He was soon on the street and he completed his planned outing as indicated to Abu.
***
The long months of learning Arabic allowed him to look at new possibilities in his inquiries. He had managed to read the Rihla several times and worked hard to form a bond with the Tuaregs in a respectful way. He had studied the mannerisms and inflections of the Tuaregs. And when the events described earlier about his confrontation with the French magistrate over the attempted framing of the Tuareg chief, with the accompanying news that the Guardians of the Letter were looking for him, caused his presence in disguise to be compromised, Holmes took rapid decisions. He asked the Tuaregs to help us travel to Timbuktu. He did not reveal his mission, though he gave broad hints that his life was in danger. He also spoke about his admiration for the Tuareg’s culture and how he hoped to visit the tomb of Queen Tin Hanan in Abalessa. The Tuaregs agreed readily, and as you have read in the previous section, did indeed succeed in taking Holmes and me across to Mali.
After resting a night at the abaradiou on the outskirts of Timbuktu, Holmes and I went on a tour of the city, assuring Hasso that we would be back soon. At a safe distance, Holmes discarded his Tuareg robes and transformed into an old Uzbek merchant from Bukhara and named himself Yaqub Beg.
“You are now my deaf and dumb slave Morteza, Watson.”
“Indeed, Holmes? This comes as a surprise.”
“This is the reason I asked for you to come to Tangier, Watson. We must now slip away from the Tuaregs for their own safety and visit the Sankore Mosque to find the parchment. The reason for the new disguise will be evident shortly. Time is of the essence.”
I donned clothing befitting a slave. Holmes told me to be very deferential, stay a good five feet behind and always look at the ground. “I shall be introducing you as my deaf and dumb slave, Watson, since your knowledge of Arabic is negligible. Therefore take care that you do not react to sharp and loud sounds. Please carry my personal effects, which I hope you will agree, are minimal, except perhaps for the bulk of the violin. In any case we have left the violin behind at the Abaradiou.”
“Yes, Master,” I said, as humbly as I could.
In a few minutes, Holmes and I were walking toward the Sankore Mosque. My new Uzbek master made me quite cognisant of my status as a slave, ensuring I walked slowly behind, while he himself strode forward masterfully, surveying the city.
We found the mosque quite easily toward the north of the town and were pleased. The old mud walls were still standing, bolstered by more recent brick facades. The annual summer restoration of the mud walls had just concluded, we gathered from some overheard remarks. The architecture was most distinctive, with a pyramidal minaret supported by wooden beams. Hundreds of students milled about noisily streaming in and out of the doors. It certainly had an aura of academia and age about it.
Holmes asked an official-looking Negro who was walking about if he could meet the administrator of the Mosque.
Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years: Timbuktu Page 15
