Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years: Timbuktu

by Vasudev Murthy

  He gestured to Father Ciasca, who in turn spoke to the Italian soldiers. A few of them systematically searched the persons of the khalifa’s soldiers, and then of Holmes and me. They took out whatever they found and placed it on a stone ledge. They then emptied our bags in the same way.

  Father Ciasca and Professor Moriarty went through the material on the ledge for some time. Meanwhile, Holmes continued smoking his pipe, and looked at me with expressionless eyes. My head was swimming. I could make nothing of this; it made no sense, least of all the conversations and the presence of these men.

  Presently, the two men returned and sat down.

  “I know you have not lost it. You are best advised to hand it over. I find violence quite repelling. But when necessary, I do know what to do.” Professor Moriarty’s voice was freezing.

  “Yes, I too dislike torture. It is the mind that is the toughest to crack, as I know you will agree. I have read your remarkable monograph on psychological torture in The Annals of Historical Research.”

  “Flattering. I knew you would see through my identity as professor of history at Grenoble.”

  “I noticed your adverse remarks about the Chinese method of a thousand cuts. I am not sure I completely agree with some of your views, but they do have merit.”

  The academic digression was perplexing.

  “As I said, bloodletting as a means to extract information and damage a person’s sense of self-worth is primitive and entirely unnecessary. The battles to be won must be in the mind. A man must willingly hand over secrets. I would be surprised if you disagreed.”

  “Quite so. Nevertheless, the fact is that I really do not have what you seek. The rest is up to you. And these men, these Italian soldiers—a quaint but practical choice.”

  Moriarty waved his cane in the air dismissively. “Tch, tch! Not from the official Italian army, Holmes, but a secret group charged with protecting the Pope. No, not the Swiss Guards. So obviously, given the importance of the task, quite necessary.”

  Sherlock Holmes refilled his pipe and lit it. “How long has Father Ciasca been working for you?”

  “For longer than he realizes.”

  “I had my suspicions. An ill-formed image. But he played his part very well.”

  “I choose only the best. You might have been useful. But you have a distorted sense of right and wrong. Much too late to do anything about it.” Moriarty glowered.

  “Every capital, every government. I congratulate you.” Holmes’ effusive admiration was puzzling.

  “Only you know. But we digress.”

  “Do we? Are you sure you have thought of all possibilities? I still do not understand the logic of what you wish to do. This is delicate, but given your age and condition, what is the use?” Holmes looked positively concerned.

  “That is the difference between you and me, Holmes. I am as aware as you of mortality. If you think I am driven by a selfish need to keep myself alive forever, you are quite wrong. It is the need to keep only the right persons alive. That is immortality, Holmes, not just endless shallow breathing. The others can live out their pathetic lives like fireflies. Bah!” Professor Moriarty spat out his contempt for the men and women who had no distinctive characteristic.

  Unaccountably, I felt a chill down my spine. There was no doubt that this man represented lethal evil.

  “Father Ciasca, why?” Holmes turned toward the representative of the Holy See.

  “You know, my dear friend. You know.” Father Ciasca smiled wanly.

  “Just to be used. Hmm. I am not pleased with myself, no, not at all. But thanks to Watson, that realization did come to me. The letter I wrote to you from Timbuktu—do you think it was a gross error in judgment? Or perhaps just a way to draw you out?”

  “There is no harm in accepting that we—Professor Moriarty and I—lack your physical strength and social abilities. In any case, this was the assigned mission. You were to return to Rome via Tangier. But instead, you disappeared. We were alarmed when you did not send us a copy of the complete manuscript from Timbuktu. Perhaps a desire to double-cross us and take possession of the secret yourself.”

  Holmes laughed. “Do you really believe the secret is simply sitting here waiting to be discovered and used?”

  Professor Moriarty interjected. “I am not in a hurry. Let us carry on inside. We arrived only yesterday. Let us move further down to where we have camped. There are signs of habitation a few miles further we are told.”

  The Italian soldiers pulled up the Sudanese guards and made them walk single file, with us walking behind. The day was hot and we felt uncomfortable. I had not comprehended the staccato conversation full of strange allusions. I wanted to speak urgently with Holmes but there was no immediate opportunity.

  We reached the camp, from which we had a clear view further on. Already, there were hints of the dusk. A few birds were announcing their plans to return to their nests.

  “Do you observe a few settlements there, Holmes?” Professor Moriarty asked, pointing.

  We could see a thin wisp of smoke at a distance.

  “Yes. Clearly. About five miles away, I should think.”

  “Now, who might live there, given that this is a prohibited area?”

  “But of course.”

  “Which means you know what I am thinking.”

  “Yes.”

  Was it my imagination or were Professor Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes the best of friends?

  The Italians led us to a clearing where they had started up a few fires to cook dinner. The cuisine was excellent, as could be expected. Over pasta and wine, Professor Moriarty and Holmes discussed various unrelated matters with an odd bonhomie. Trigonometry, the Pole Star, the Bay of Biscay, Pondicherry, pyrites, the murder of a French notable’s wife, and so on. They did not touch upon the problem at hand.

  After dinner, Moriarty stood in front of Holmes.

  “Sleep over it. Tomorrow we conclude our mission. It is best to cooperate,” he said.

  “You make a convincing argument. Regrettably, I have nothing new to add,” Holmes replied.

  Moriarty turned on his heels and left. We were escorted to our primitive tents, guarded by the Italians.

  ***

  “I can say with absolute certainty that I know what is to happen soon.” Holmes was lying on his back, making a rude pillow of his hands, and smoking a cigarette.

  “What, Holmes?”

  “I do not mean to keep you on tenterhooks. But even these open tents have ears. Professor Moriarty and Father Ciasca are making a mistake.”

  “What is happening here, Holmes?” I cried. “How is Father Ciasca here? Was he not the same person who sent you to Morocco and then to Timbuktu?”

  “Yes, Watson. You are right. It was this that I anticipated when you made that remark at Abalessa. I simply did not guess till that point that Father Ciasca was involved. It was an extraordinarily perfect cover. In my mind it was one of those things you take for granted, like the air we breathe without thinking of. A senior Vatican official working for Professor Moriarty? But I am prepared. And you get every credit, my dear fellow, for deflating my ego and removing the blinders from my eyes at the right time.

  “But what these men do not understand,” Holmes whispered in my ear, “is that—”

  At that point, there was a loud shouting as the sounds of a large number of galloping horses swept the camp. Holmes and I stared at each other and jumped out of the tent.

  Hasso Ag Akotey and the Tuaregs had moved in silently behind the Italians and in a swift manoeuvre, seized the guns, and taken over the camp without a shot being fired. The Italians had relaxed their guard and had not realized that we had left the Tuaregs behind.

  The tables had turned in minutes. Our captors were now our prisoners. The Sudanese and Tuaregs were now in charge.

  Hasso walked quickly up
to us with a beaming smile. Holmes and he hugged each other.

  “Father, we followed after two hours, as you said. We watched everything from the rocks over there.”

  “The ever-reliable Hasso! I knew you were close by. That is what I was telling Watson here. I was not the least bit concerned.” Holmes clapped Hasso’s shoulders.

  Professor Moriarty, Father Ciasca, and the Italian guards were herded together by the Tuaregs and the Sudanese soldiers—who were certainly agitated and not keen to be calm and forgiving—in the center of a clearing, with a long rope tying them all together. They were then forced to sit down on the ground. The bonfires from the evening meal gave us light as did the moon. The hills added to a rather picturesque sight. We walked across to them.

  Professor Moriarty glowered, his hands tied behind him. Father Ciasca was silent as well, but more out of fear.

  “I am surprised this never occurred to you,” observed Holmes with the hint of a smile.

  There was no reply.

  ***

  That night, however, Holmes again fell sick. The old injuries and lack of rest once again caught up with him. A fever raged and the normally energetic Holmes was forced to acknowledge the power of nature. I tended to him through the night, applying damp towels to his brow.

  Sometime after midnight, I heard the shuffle of feet just outside the tent. I asked the person to come in.

  The curtains parted to reveal a striking Tuareg woman.

  I was considerably surprised since there had been no Tuareg woman with us on the journey. Not being able to speak the language, I was unable to communicate at all. She had with her a bowl of water and some small pouches—perhaps of medicine—and a few pieces of cloth.

  I understood that she wished to tend to Holmes. I put up a restraining hand and shook my head. She ignored me, and to my chagrin, gently pushed me aside. She then sat next to the fevered Holmes and made him comfortable. I could see she was a very experienced nurse of some kind, moving Holmes carefully and correctly so that he was comfortable. Hasso had obviously sent her. It was kind of him.

  I watched as she created an even more comfortable bed. As the hours dragged on, Holmes once again slipped into delirium.

  “A fine river, the Joliba! What would Mycroft say about the crocodiles? Watson, what a fine man, ever ready to help...If only he used his head a little more...Rainfall in the Sahara? Now where is my cocaine? I wish to travel to Taghaza, my good man. I shall live there. Balmy, soothing climes, would you not say? Ha ha ha!”

  I was considerably troubled by this relapse but took comfort in seeing the Tuareg lady take care of him with such attention. He needed nursing more than medical assistance.

  In the morning, I stepped out of the tent and mentioned to the Tuaregs and the Sudanese that Holmes was not well. They expressed concern but I told them as best as I could that Holmes was in competent hands, though I did not discuss the matter further.

  It looked as though we were unlikely to make any progress for the day. Professor Moriarty had been tied very firmly to a stake in the ground in the shade of a large hill.

  “Holmes is ill, eh?” he snarled venomously. “Doesn’t look good, doesn’t look good. And who is tending to him? Dr. John Watson from Harley Street!” he mocked. I ignored him

  I returned to the tent. The woman was sitting by Holmes. She glanced at me briefly and returned her attentions to Holmes.

  The Tuareg woman is handsome, if I may be permitted to say. The colour of the skin varies, tending to be dark. The face is usually tattooed. Though there is no veil, a cloth usually covers the hair. There is extensive use of ornamentation, particular silver. The design of the jewelry is seldom found, I am given to understand. I noticed a particularly attractive silver bracelet.

  This nurse assigned to Holmes by Hasso was certainly quite remarkable. I refrain, as a rule, from looking at a lady in too bold a manner and so observed her countenance furtively from time to time. I would venture to say that she was most charming with commendable features. She possessed immense confidence and never asked me for any help. She helped Holmes up regularly, and fed him or coaxed him to have the medicines she had brought. Holmes was not a difficult patient. He drifted in and out of sleep and his fever did not break for several hours. The constant attention given by the Tuareg nurse to Holmes was quite moving.

  She rarely turned in my direction and did not speak a word. It was not possible for me to express my gratitude to her. I was grateful to Hasso, too, for the kind gesture of assigning such a competent nurse to me.

  By the evening, Holmes’ health had indeed turned for the better. The fever broke conclusively but the nurse’s attention was so impeccable that Holmes looked fresh. That aquiline nose, those sharp features, that intelligent countenance—had I not known better, I might have said Holmes was just enjoying a light late afternoon nap.

  And just as abruptly as she had entered, she collected her materials and slipped out of the tent very quietly.

  ***

  “I feel like a new man, Watson. Your ministrations made the difference. I am indebted,” said Holmes the next day. He did indeed look rejuvenated.

  “It was not I, Holmes,” said I, amused by his incorrect inference. “Hasso had assigned a Tuareg nurse to you. I was most impressed by her abilities. Please do thank him when you get an opportunity.”

  “Indeed?” Holmes frowned, but did not comment further. We prepared for the journey further into the valley.

  It was decided that only Holmes, Hasso, and I would walk toward the settlement.

  We had barely travelled for twenty minutes when we came across a group of people walking slowly toward us.

  Something about their clothes, their gait, and their countenances struck us as unusual. Holmes gestured to us to stop. We were, after all, intruders. As they neared, he bowed respectfully and we followed suit.

  The men and women looked strange and quite out of place. I have to confess I experienced extreme unease in their presence, though they carried no weapons and seemed quite peaceful. But their clothes, their demeanour, their physique—everything was unusual.

  The seventh man stood out. He was rather old, with a white beard and a feeble gait, using a stick to balance himself. But he was someone from a different time. He was certainly European. I felt I was looking on at a medieval play.

  He bowed gently to Holmes. The two men looked steadily at each other, smiling.

  There was no obvious threat from any in the group. Through sign language and much laughter, the old man indicated that he would like to walk back to our camp with us.

  The six inhabitants of the valley walked about the campsite, looking at the intruders. They showed particular interest in the Sudanese, who resembled them. There was an attempt to communicate but their languages seemed mutually incomprehensible.

  The old man seated himself on a rough rock and looked about with a pleasant smile. Then he beckoned to Holmes. After a few trials, they found French a common language to communicate in.

  Some ten minutes later, Holmes asked that Father Ciasca be brought forward as well.

  The old man addressed Father Ciasca, speaking in a pleasant voice in a language that sounded like Italian but had a peculiar, unfamiliar inflection. I gathered he was introducing himself.

  Father Ciasca’s face was drained of all blood. He stared at the man, his eyes wide with horror and shock.

  Holmes looked at me and smiled. “Watson, do you know who this gentleman is?”

  “I confess you have me at a disadvantage, Holmes.”

  “Allow me to introduce you to Marco Polo, Citizen of Venice.” He bowed with dramatic flair.

  I cannot quite describe my feelings when I heard this. I am a man of modern science, and every sense of rationality protests when confronted with “evidence” of matters that defy natural laws. Marco Polo? A man dead since the year 1325 now alive
in a secret valley near the Fourth Cataract of the Nile in 1893?

  The reader will find this aspect of the story absolutely outrageous and possibly even insulting to his intelligence. I must heartily agree that I too found it impossible to believe Holmes. He did have a dry sense of humour, but this was plainly in extremely poor taste. I was forced to protest.

  “Holmes, this is an outrage! We are the best of friends, but this is not an occasion for such levity,” I cried out in consternation.

  “There is nothing amusing about the matter, my dear Watson. This gentleman with the odd Italian accent is indeed Marco Polo.”

  “Marco Polo is dead, Holmes! Dead! He died in 1325 and was buried in a church in Venice. You told me so yourself! I greatly fear that the sun has affected you. No, it is a combination of sunstroke and the ill effects of the injury you suffered. This is—”

  Holmes interrupted me. “I did tell you he was buried in Venice, Watson, because that is what I believed was the case. But the facts are otherwise. And in the meanwhile, observe that Father Ciasca is quite disturbed.”

  Indeed, Father Ciasca was hysterical, speaking loudly and rapidly, addressing the old man in Italian, who looked at him with a curious, glazed look. The translation of the conversation, as best Holmes and I could recall:

  “I seek forgiveness! The greatest citizen of Venice! Alive! Yes! Not dead! Alive! Alive! Five hundred and fifty years after he was buried—he has risen! Do my eyes betray me now? But no, this is he, Marco Polo, the great traveller himself! Do not punish me! I did not know you were alive, Signore!” Father Ciasca was in a state of extreme agitation.

  The signore responded in a soft, quavering voice. I could make nothing of it. I had the surreal feeling I was watching a performance of Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice.

  “Ah, my son, there is nothing to apologize for. I am so happy to speak in my own tongue. So much time has passed. Centuries, perhaps? You speak Italian in a very strange way, my son. Or perhaps my hearing is not very good.”

  “But how is it, sire, that you are alive and are here?”