He was quite subdued but appreciative of our assistance in a very personal matter.
“Well, my son is back. I feel sorry for him, but such matters are not permitted, so perhaps it is just as well. We are faced with many problems and cannot afford these kinds of distractions. I will groom him for something else.”
“But we have not really solved your problem, Your Excellency.”
“That is true. You have addressed one of the three matters I had spoken off. But it was a very important matter. I am thankful.”
“My suggestion,” said Father Bąkiewicz, seizing the moment, “is to carry forward the slave-trade ban. The economic effect will be compensated by the loyalty of a large population. I also suggest that you look into the assassination matter from a different perspective. The manner in which Omar was sought to be implicated suggests that your enemies are circling closer and closer.”
“Meaning?”
“Are you prepared for an honest answer that may wound you?” asked Father Bąkiewicz.
“For the honour of the country, I must face the truth, no matter how harsh,” the khalifa replied.
“The son who deserves to be your successor is Omar, Your Excellency.”
“What? But he is an artist and poet. He cannot be my successor! Uthman must be my successor.” The khalifa was aghast. “Why do you say this? And what does this have to do with the assassination attempts?”
“In matters concerning families, an outsider’s view is unwelcome but sometimes necessary,” said Father Bąkiewicz.
He turned to me.
“Tadeusz, do you remember that I mentioned I was puzzled by what Ismail El-Kachief had said? I was struck by two things. One, that he was not displaying the objectivity that he ought to have, given his position. He deliberately tried to influence us. And you, Tadeusz, were regrettably influenced. He spoke highly of Uthman and his abilities but he himself gave us the first clue that all was not well. He said that an ambitious son does not wait! Knowing that the khalifa was very fond of Omar, Uthman was, I believe, uneasy. What if the khalifa, in a weak moment, decided to anoint him his successor? Thus the slightly clumsy attempts to paint a picture of Omar as a weak, bumbling son with an artistic temperament.
“And yet, when I looked at the evidence, I saw little evidence of him being weak. Simply being a musician is not a disqualification. For that matter, you, the khalifa, like art and you cannot be considered a weak ruler. A crude attempt was being made to influence us.
“Only Uthman, Omar, and Ismail were in a position to know the plans of the khalifa. We imagined that one of them could be the person. But in fact, it was both Uthman and Ismail who were conspiring to disturb you.
“They kept you constantly on your toes, with four attempted assassinations. But how could it be that all were conveniently thwarted? A snake, poison, a back-firing revolver, a botched attack in Haya—every time an error? The probability is slim, unless we conclude that the attempts were deliberately botched. This created a sense of danger and consolidated the position of Ismail El-Kacheif, which made you depend more and more on him, who, I am sure, spoke often on the need to be a ruthless king, suggesting again and again that Uthman was the natural choice. Therefore, in contrast, Omar looked weak and insipid, consumed by love and music.
“I therefore recommend that you consider a new chief of security, and send Uthman to the front as a commander of soldiers. You need a leader of men, someone who unites and not someone who divides.”
The khalifa looked long and hard at Father Bąkiewicz.
“You are making a very serious allegation.”
The khalifa stroked his moustache slowly.
“And yet your points are correct. Only a very brave man would have spoken to me in such a manner. I shall think about it carefully. I am indebted to you. In the meanwhile, you may leave for Jebel Barkal as you planned. Come back soon.”
We bowed and left the khalifa’s residence.
30With Western Africa firmly in the grip of the French, it was necessary for the British to consolidate their position in the area close to the Suez Canal. I recall my good friend Charles McKenzie, who had important responsibilities at the Foreign Office, travelling frequently to Cairo for confabulations. He never spoke much about it and neither did I ask, as it would not have been good form. But I knew that he had much to do with the Convention of Constantinople, which gave control of the Suez Canal to us, thereby providing significant leverage in world political and economic matters. I would go so far as to say he was one of the unsung heroes of that event, which, even if notionally, was a courteous agreement between us and the French, given that we had at least a 44 percent stake in the Suez since 1882.
31Sawākin was replaced by Port Sudan some years later.
32The reader will recall two remarkable tales—“The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter” and ‘The Adventure of the Yellow Face”—which might be distantly related in some way to this vignette. Specifically, they alluded to a very human dimension that had been grossly overlooked as we plunged into unravelling extremely unusual problems.
The Valley
The circumstances that led to the arrest of Baron Stafford33 and his partners in crime are only superficially known to the members of the public. When the news broke in 1889, I recall the sense of consternation and bewilderment that was experienced by whomever was more than notionally acquainted with the few facts that somehow managed to appear in the news. Indeed, were they facts at all or just red herrings? Yes, certainly a valid point. It was Holmes who so cleverly solved the mystery.
Here was an upstanding member of the landed gentry, possessing a formidable reputation, who brought the problem to our notice himself, providing information and participating actively, and apparently sincerely, in the investigation of the shocking murders of three foreigners (a Spaniard, a German, and an Italian) in Birmingham in a single day. We were overcome with shock and revulsion when Holmes found that it was the baron himself who was involved. I never published that story because crucial sensitivities were involved; the prime minister himself called me in for a quiet chat and explained that the diplomatic relations between Britain and a number of European states could have been irreparably affected if the case received publicity beyond what had already been printed.
The reader may find it puzzling that I make a reference here to a completely unconnected case at this point in the narrative. There is a reason. On reflecting upon many past cases, Holmes and I concluded that in the overwhelming majority, the matter could have been easily solved with the gift of hindsight. That is, had we the luxury of time, it might have been very easy to arrive at the end by simply sitting in a club and ruminating, quite like Mycroft at the Diogenes. But in some, the twist, as in the case of Baron Stafford, was not obvious and it was only on account of an accidental remark that a new train of thought was triggered. It was at a disreputable bar that Holmes overheard two men speak of the case. One of them remarked on the fact that the baron had ordered a large number of expensive Cuban cigars from his shop. This very innocuous remark electrified Holmes…and the rest we know. I am forced to be somewhat opaque here but you will understand my predicament given my constraints.
The attentive will recall Holmes’ near-violent and euphoric reaction at Abalessa. I had said something quite casually and he saw something there of great import. You will shortly see the connection.
After our more recent adventure in Khartoum, we set out to Jebel Barkal, near the city of Napata. The group was of modest size: Holmes and I, fifteen Tuareg men led by Hasso, and four members of the khalifa’s personal guards. Twenty-one in all.
The actual destination was in Holmes’ mind. He had memorized the location of the valley and knew how to get there. But Jebel Barkal was the base camp. He said vaguely that the actual location was not far away, but did not say in which direction or where exactly.
We moved north of Omdurman, after saying good-bye to the khalifa, promising to return soon. The short journey was quite comfortable; we were equipped well and were secure. Conditions were optimal; Holmes, Hasso, and I were quite excited. This was the final leg. Events that would presumably unfold shortly would tell us whether or not the journey was a success. Could the whole thing have been an elaborate hoax? What if the map was simply incorrect? What if there was nothing to be found? We would soon know.
We passed Wadi Seidna and then cut across the desert to Kurti, instead of following the Nile. At Kurti, we crossed the river. It was in the afternoon of the second day that we reached Jebel Barkal, not far from the Fourth Cataract. We set off immediately in a ______-______ly direction. Holmes said that the destination was not more than ___ miles away.34 We soon reached a little nameless village. Just beyond were some nondescript hills. It seemed promising.
Hasso spoke with a local villager.
“Salaam. Can you help us? Where is ______?”
The man looked steadily at Hasso and then at the soldiers.
“Why do you want to know?”
Before Hasso could respond, the man waved in the direction of the hills, perhaps a distance of three miles.
“There in those hills. Those hills are called ______. There are ghosts there. Do not go. It is prohibited. Those who go never return.”
Then he moved on swiftly.
The mood suddenly changed. The men became noticeably nervous as the horses and camels walked on toward the hills. There was a narrow path, not very distinct, suggesting that there was some regular movement between the village and the hills. But soon, the path disappeared, though the entrance to the valley, while narrow, was distinct, marked by stacked rocks.
Holmes and I dismounted a quarter-mile before the hills, as did the Tuaregs and the Sudanese soldiers.
It was agreed that the Tuaregs would stay at that spot and follow after a while. We would proceed only with the soldiers.
“If we do not return in a few hours, please come into the valley to find us. Force may be necessary. I do anticipate trouble.”
Hasso nodded.
The six of us proceeded on foot to the marked entrance. As we approached, we saw a sign in Arabic.
٢- لا تدخل بدون إذن وإلا سوف تقتل
One of the soldiers said that it was a warning: Do not enter without permission, or you will be killed.
“But we are soldiers of the khalifa and this place belongs to him. That warning cannot apply to us,” he said, dismissively. “We shall go in as ordered.”
The others nodded. We walked into the valley.
Sheer rock rose vertically on both sides of the narrow entrance, blocking out sunlight. It was a few minutes before the path widened and the rocks vanished behind us. As we turned a corner, we saw a small grassland—an oasis and a valley spreading out for some distance. It looked like any other place.
We stopped and took in the sight.
And then, from behind us came an unfamiliar, grating voice.
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I presume.”
We spun around as a group, with the soldiers drawing their weapons instinctively.
Facing us, with rifles drawn, were six men spread over the surrounding hills. They had been camouflaged, it appeared. It was a perfect trap.
The man who spoke was rather old and lean. His hair was white; he was balding too. He was seated on a large flat rock. There was something cadaverous about him, something rather sinister. I was reminded of a vulture.
“I would really suggest the immediate application of logic, Mr. Holmes,” he said, in a thin querulous voice, sounding weary.
Holmes’ reaction was surprising.
He smiled.
He spoke out in Arabic to the guards. “Please drop your weapons. There are too many of them.”
The men did so, looking confused.
“As expected, Professor Moriarty.” Holmes bowed briefly.
“Oh, I knew that you knew I would come.”
“I would have been disappointed if not. We finally meet. A rare sojourn away from Paris?”
“Yes. Important enough, would you not agree?”
“Of course. But I am disappointed. Surely what you desire is illogical.”
“On the contrary. Your lack of desire is illogical.”
“About Rome—well done.”
“You took a long time to realize that. I was most disappointed. Yes, by all means, do have a smoke.”
The soldiers had come forward and snatched away the weapons of the Sudanese soldiers, who were asked to sit down on their haunches. I noticed that they were Europeans.
“Grazie,” said Holmes pleasantly to one of the soldiers who took away his personal effects. He had settled on a rock and was busy cleaning his pipe and searching for his tobacco pouch. I was utterly bewildered by his behaviour.
He finally lit his pipe. “And where is your man in the Vatican?” asked Holmes, evidently delighted by this meeting.
“Coincidentally, a well-timed question. Our tents are pitched a quarter-mile away. He has been summoned from his siesta. Here he is.”
We saw a small man walking across to us from a distance.
“Ah, Father Ciasca, we meet again! Quite some distance from Rome. A pleasure.” Holmes was most cordial.
The curator of the Vatican Secret Archives came up, catching his breath. “Ah, Mr. Holmes. The pleasure is mine,” he beamed.
“The weather is most challenging,” he complained, his voice betraying some weakness. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.
“Do sit. Perhaps one of your soldiers will bring you some water.” Holmes was most solicitous, despite being constrained in his movements because of several rifles pointed at him.
“Grazie, grazie,” said Father Ciasca, as someone brought a simple functional chair from somewhere.
I could make nothing of this strange conversation.
“I see that your friend, the lugubrious Watson, appears confused by this conversation. Quite right on your part to not discuss this matter with him, quite right.” Professor Moriarty chuckled malevolently.
“He is smarter than you give him credit for,” Holmes responded, pulling at his pipe. “Indeed, his mind is superior to mine, though his humility forces him not to acknowledge it. A wonderful trait, humility.”
“If you insist. Let us not waste time. Please hand over the complete manuscript.”
“But tell me,” said Holmes, ignoring the request. “Tell me for my own edification—when did you come and why the soldiers?”
“We were here a few days ago and found the valley through some sensible triangulation,” said Professor Moriarty. “Your copy of the map sent from Timbuktu helped. I was quite sure you would try to mislead Father Ciasca, but you disappointed and sent him the precise copy—perhaps a mistake. Only of the map. Not of the completed chant. Quite shrewd, quite shrewd.
“The Pope wants to safeguard the manuscript. But we have other plans. Ciasca obtained permission from the Pope to take along these guards and bring us here and obtain the secret. But of course, we have no intention of giving it to him.”
Holmes replied, “Of course, that is understood. But I really wish to know how it would help you. Do you really believe this rubbish?”
“Rubbish, Holmes? Rubbish? I have seen enough to never discount the outrageous. We were involved in the case of the shamans of the Sumatran head-hunters, were we not, Holmes? Have you forgotten the zombies? You may never admit that I got the better of you then. But let me not digress.
“As far as this is concerned, the probability of this being true is enough reason to acquire it. My plan is simple. The finest and the best of men must have access to time. If they are constrained by the fear of death, their minds will be distracted. The weak, sick, and unproductive are not requir
ed beyond their normal lifespan.”
“You wish to play God?” Holmes pulled at his pipe.
“I am disappointed again, Holmes. How can a man of your intelligence believe in or talk of God? Utter nonsense. Surely a musician, a scientist, a leader of men, an artist—surely they need more than a mere lifetime to truly excel! True brilliance in any field emerges after the age of seventy, at which point ambition has diminished as have other faculties! What a genius needs then are extra years! As many as he wants! Can you imagine? Do you realize what power means? To determine who should live and who should not—and not a drop of blood spilt! I—yes, I— will decide who those persons should be! I shall decide who is not worth living.
“However, I do not wish to debate since I am quite aware you have considered precisely these matters. So let us come to the point. Where is it?” Professor Moriarty waved his cane impatiently.
“I do not have it.” Holmes tapped his pipe gently against a nearby rock.
Moriarty sighed. “Did I overestimate you then, Holmes? My interest in coming here from Paris was really to meet you and examine your frontal lobes at close quarters. I have always appreciated your reasonably logical mind and from time to time considered you a worthy adversary. But you never fail to disappoint.” He clucked disapprovingly, glaring at Holmes.
“I can only repeat what I said. I do not have the document. You are wasting your time.”
“I see. And where is it?”
“Of that I have no idea. I appear to have lost it.”
“How remarkably convenient. And yet you have travelled all this way based purely on your memory of the map.”
“Yes. As have you.”
“And why would you bother coming all the way to this valley if you had no purpose?”
“Sightseeing.”
Professor Moriarty glowered at Holmes.
“I see. You delight in mocking me. Well, you will certainly have more than enough time to enjoy the attractions of this valley. Perhaps eternity.”
Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years: Timbuktu Page 26
