by Barry Day
Remember the deep waters
SHERLOCK HOLMES”
That was all very well, but how was I to know what my role was supposed to be? No doubt he would deign to tell me when we met at the auction.
As I crossed the Lobby, my eye was caught by a large poster which featured a photograph of Challenger in heroic pose over the legend—THE GREAT CHALLENGER COLLECTION! The same motif adorned the cover of the catalogue I was handed as I descended the steps to the Lounge. For something I knew to have been printed in a hurry, it was rather an impressive piece of work. Having agreed to co-operate, Challenger had clearly entered into the spirit of the thing and his hand was everywhere apparent in the printed descriptions of the various ‘lots’.
“Unique collection of Arawak Indian blowpipes assembled during my epic expedition up the Orinoco in 1887. Item 5 was obtained as a result of hand-to-hand combat with the leader of the tribe, a singularly vicious fellow. Full details will be found in my book, River of Death: A South American Odyssey, signed copies of which are available.”
The room was filling up as the hour approached and I looked around for Holmes without success. What did catch my eye, however, was the looming figure of Mycroft, trying to look as unobtrusive as possible behind a pillar at the back of the room. I made my way through the crowd and joined him. As he saw me, he produced a piece of paper from his pocket and raised an inquiring eyebrow. I nodded. So we were both under starter’s orders.
There was a sharp rap on a gavel and the crowd began to settle. Now I could see that there was a small platform against one wall of this large, mainly open space and on it was an auctioneer’s lectern. Behind it stood Challenger himself. He had clearly decided to be his own auctioneer.
Now he began to lay out the rules of engagement, so to speak. We were all of us fortunate to be here today to so much as lay our eyes on the fruits of a career—a career, he might add, of unparalleled achievement, which history would undoubtedly … At this point one of the audience—almost certainly a journalist—asked him to “Get on with it!” Challenger turned on him a withering gaze and informed us all that anyone who interrupted the proceedings by a coarse remark or a frivolous bid would be ejected from the building by him personally and he ventured to speculate that many of his audience today knew that he was perfectly capable of carrying out his threat. He would now begin the auction.
I scanned the room again. No Holmes. No Staunton either, as far as I could see. And then Mycroft nudged me. Pretending to consult his catalogue, his eyes flickered towards the far corner of the room, where a swarthy Indian man had just entered.
“The ears have it, I think, Doctor.”
And, indeed, although most people would have simply registered the man’s distinctive skin tone and the full moustache, with the hindsight of Holmes’s observation, I could see nothing but Staunton’s imperforate ear lobes.
All the contestants, save one, were on the field. Let battle commence!
It was certainly the strangest auction I have ever attended. To be frank, the objects offered for sale were a ragbag assortment at best and I remembered Holmes telling me that Mrs. Challenger had been particularly active in assembling them, often having to prise them from the Professor’s reluctant grasp. Each one of them clearly had a sentimental value for him and the auction proceeded at a snail-like pace, as he wandered off into a discourse on each and every one of them.
As one lot gradually succeeded another, I became aware that—as with any auction—a separate theatre develops among the bidders and lead actors begin to emerge among the crowd.
There were two or three no nonsense men who were obviously dealers and who would have a well defined ceiling to what they were prepared to bid. There was a dusty academic who, I would have been prepared to wager, was bidding hopefully on behalf of a provincial museum and who looked well pleased to secure a couple of annotated maps.
There was an elderly spinster who was delighted with a pair of Challenger’s old galoshes and who blushed crimson when he congratulated her on her excellent taste.
And then there was a rubicund middle aged man who, from his garb, was clearly American and almost certainly from somewhere in the West. Around his neck was slung what looked like a well-worn miner’s knapsack. By contrast with the local bidders, who tended to signify their bids by a flick of their catalogues, he would raise his arm high to ensure he was noticed.
As lot succeeded lot, a pattern began to emerge. The dealers acquired most of what they came for and began to drift away. The amateur enthusiasts waved their catalogues until they had picked up their souvenir and then retired happy. The American seemed to bid enthusiastically on anything and everything but with a total lack of success and appeared increasingly frustrated.
Staunton bid on nothing but merely stood in his place by the wall, his catalogue tightly clenched in his hand and his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the podium where Challenger stood.
Finally, we came to Lot 21—an assortment of miscellaneous odds and ends.
Challenger picked up the items one at a time handling them lovingly. Here were the spectacles his father had worn on his first Amazon expedition, the occasion—he recalled as if it were yesterday—when he had narrowly escaped an attack of rabid piranha. Not for the first time in his rambling discourse I had a shrewd suspicion that much of the Professor’s evident enjoyment was being derived by pulling the legs of his audience.
Now he had the familiar black leather book in his hands. He turned it over idly, as if it meant little to him.
“I’m afraid I can tell you little or nothing about this, ladies and gentlemen. I found it among my late father’s effects. I believe the inscription may be in Sanskrit but I freely confess I have never wasted my time on dead languages. No, my interest has always been with hard evidence of the way people lived and shaped their world. Which is why my new expedition …”
And he was off on a word picture that threatened to take as long as the expedition itself.
It was at that point that a voice cut in.
“Ten pounds.”
The voice was Staunton’s and there was something in his tone that drew attention to him from those around him.
“Guineas!”
Now the American was bidding again. Staunton looked surprised, then raised his bid to eleven pounds. Again the American cheerfully turned it into guineas.
“Twelve pounds.” Staunton again.
“Fifty!”
There was a ripple of chatter around the room. Did this innocent American know what he was doing?
I saw a muscle tighten at the angle of Staunton’s jaw.
“Guineas.” And now he was smiling but without genuine amusement in the smile.
The room fell expectantly quiet, awaiting the American’s response.
“One hundred … guineas.”
Now Staunton’s face was a picture of frustration. What was he to make of this madman? Then, it was as though his face had been wiped clean and an expression of pleased cunning began to form. The man decided on another course of action.
He made a grave little bow of concession in the direction of the American and put his catalogue in his pocket. Challenger rapped his gavel and the auction was over.
Now the journalists who had come along, largely in the hope of a display of Challenger histrionics, clustered around the American who seemed a little flustered by all this unexpected attention.
I indicated to Mycroft that we should move a little closer, so that we could eavesdrop on what was being said. Personally, I was beginning to feel like an actor in a play who has not been allowed to know the plot.
Surely Staunton was supposed to have acquired the Book of Kor?
Did this mean that Holmes’s master plan had been aborted? And where was Holmes?
Now we could hear the journalists questioning the American. Who was he? Why did he want Challenger’s castoffs so badly?
“No story in me, mah friends,” he replied with a slight mid-western twang. “Diver’s
the name. Josiah H. Diver, Curator of the Museum of Human Life in Scottsdale, Arizona. ‘Our Future is in Our Past’—that’s our motto. We’re not a big fancy institution like some I could name but we’re mighty ambitious out there in Scottsdale, Arizona. Always admired the doings of the legendary Professor Challenger …”
Challenger would feast on this for days, I thought.
“… and we figured that just about anything of his would be a real big attraction. So I just had to get that last lot of his. Or ah couldn’t rightly go back home with mah head held high. Suppose I’ m a sort of diplomat for the State of Arizona in mah own small way. Yes, sir, a diplomat …”
I turned to Mycroft, who was scanning the room, which was slowly emptying. He shook his head to signify he had seen no sign of his brother. Challenger, too, had disappeared.
Now I noticed that Staunton had edged his way through the journalists and was whispering confidentially in Diver’s ear. The American listened and was apparently intrigued by what he heard, for he nodded enthusiastically. He turned to make his apologies to the remaining journalists, then followed Staunton out of the Lounge.
I had the feeling that something significant had just happened in that room and that the significance had somehow eluded me. Something I had heard?
Whatever it was, the speculation was driven out of my mind by a hotel page boy, who appeared at my shoulder and offered me an envelope on a silver salver.
“Doctor Watson and Mr. Mycroft Holmes?”
“Yes, but …”
As I tentatively picked up the envelope, the page touched his forelock and was gone.
“Might it not be as well to read the contents, Doctor? Unless my eyes deceive me, the handwriting is my brother’s.”
I did as Mycroft suggested and in Holmes’s precise hand I read—
“My Dear Watson and Mycroft—
On receipt of this note, I pray you make your way immediately to the Zakhistan Consulate. You will find the garden gate open. On no account enter the house. Watch and listen and await the word of Kor. The game is almost over but the end game may be the most dangerous of all. And Watson—remember the deep waters!
HOLMES”
And then it came to me.
“We are divers in deep waters, Watson.”
Of course—Josiah Diver of Scottsdale, Arizona was Holmes! And now Staunton had lured him—and the supposed Book of Kor—on to his own ground.
Or was it the other way around?
Chapter Fifteen
Challenger’s auction had taken longer than I had realised, for it was nearly ten o’clock and fully dark when our cab dropped us at the entrance to Regent’s Park nearest to the stretch of road that contained the embassies.
As I led the way I could not help but wonder what we should find. Holmes had called this the end game—but whose end was it to be? Staunton would stop at nothing now, for he had nothing to lose. What kind of plight did Uma find herself in? And precisely what role did Holmes expect me to play? So often in the past I had had to act on instinct. It was to be hoped that my instinct would not fail me on this most perilous occasion.
“Not that I am in the habit of frequenting London’s public parks by night, but does it not strike you that an undue number of the local populace are abroad rather late, Doctor?”
And, indeed, now that Mycroft came to mention it, the road did seem a little busy for the time of night and the occupants were all men. Two or three were chatting, as if unwilling to call it a night; a few were strolling remarkably slowly and a couple seemed to be sweeping the street. That in itself was a sight I couldn’t recall seeing at this time of night but perhaps it was one of the extra things the Regent’s Park taxes paid for.
Then, as we passed the group of talkative friends, a voice said softly—
“Don’t worry, Doctor—Mr. Mycroft—Lestrade here. We’ve got the place sealed up nice and tight. A worm couldn’t wriggle our of there.
Yes, I thought, but how about a couple of snakes?
“Staunton went in just now—I recognised him right away, despite the boot polish. He had another feller with ’im. Just waiting for Mr. ’Olmes now.”
‘You may have some time to wait, Lestrade,’ I said to myself.
A few paces further and we were at the garden gate of the Consulate. As Holmes had promised, it opened to the touch. Now we were in the garden with the gate pushed to behind us.
It was very much as I had described it to Holmes. The house itself was well set back from the road at the end of a row of formal flower beds but the main feature of the garden was a number of mature oak trees, still full of foliage, that would appear to have been planted when the house was first built. I was grateful for the shadows they cast, which enabled Mycroft and myself—neither of us particularly slight figures—to approach the house under their protective cover.
Immediately in front of us—just as Uma had described it to us—was the main reception room, which had a pair of French windows that opened out on to the garden. At the moment they were firmly closed and the curtains inside them drawn, allowing only a chink of light to fall on the flagstones outside.
What now?
As if he read my thoughts, Mycroft murmured in my ear—
“Remember Doctor—‘Watch and wait and listen.’”
It was as if his words were a cue for, no sooner had he uttered them than the curtains were abruptly pulled back and one of the French windows opened a crack.
In the light that spilled out of the room I saw that Staunton was the person who had performed these acts. Luckily the contrast between the light of the room and the dark outside blinded him sufficiently to allow us to pull back out of his line of sight. As he turned back into the room, I heard Diver’s unmistakable voice say—“Why, thank you kindly, sir …”
Holmes, I thought fleetingly, you really must be careful not to overdo this folksy accent.
“… this asthma of mine can be real troublesome at this time of night. And it appears it doesn’t take to that incense, or whatever it is, that you folks like so much. You see, the air in Scottsdale, Arizona, where I come from, is kind of dry …”
“As compared with the air in, say, Baker Street?”
I have often heard the phrase about someone’s heart being in their mouth but I had never had the literal experience until that moment. I edged my way forward until I could just see into the room without revealing my own presence. What I saw did nothing to set my mind at rest.
Diver/Holmes was sitting in an armchair, his knapsack at his feet. Standing in front of him but at a safe distance, so that he could not be surprised by any sudden move on Holmes’s part, was Staunton with a small revolver levelled at his heart.
“Oh, my dear Mr. Holmes, did you really think you could deceive me twice? How does the old saying go?
Fool me once—shame on you!
Fool me twice—shame on me!
“Your Pascal was a brilliant improvisation, I admit. But this stumbling simpleton was, frankly, beneath you. In fact, it causes me to wonder whether your remarkable reputation is all it is claimed to be.
“You know I intend to have the Book of Kor which, for all I knew, might have been lost years ago. You go to great pains to show me that it still exists, you create an occasion on which I can acquire it painlessly and then you have second thoughts. Is it because you and that dull doctor friend of yours.…”
Dull doctor!
“… wish to gain favour with Madame Uma by returning it yourselves and making it seem that I have failed in my mission? In which case, I’m afraid it is you who have failed in yours.”
I saw Holmes rise slowly to his feet. His whole bearing spoke of defeat. As he spoke he removed his false bushy eyebrows and pushed his hair back into place. With those simple gestures Diver was gone and Sherlock Holmes was back.
“I have clearly underestimated you, Staunton,” he said and even his voice seemed weary. “You have been ahead of me at every turn. The death of Briggs was brilliant. Pelham
’s bold beyond belief. It took me far too long to see the scarlet thread of murder and where it led …”
But that’s not true, I thought. Holmes picked it up from the very beginning. And then I realised why Mycroft and I had been instructed to wait and listen. Holmes was leading Staunton into a confession and we were to be the witnesses.
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes, I appreciate the compliment from one professional, as it were, to another. Yes, I can say I am modestly pleased with my efforts to date. The rest, I’m afraid—including, sadly, your dear brother—will have to wait for another occasion. But that day will come, never fear. Even though, equally sadly, you will not be here to witness it.
“When all this nonsense about Kor and the holy books crossed my path, I freely admit that my life was at a low ebb. But suddenly, everything fell into place, as if it were intended. That stupid book really did have power. If I used it properly, it would give me the excuse to wipe the slate clean. All those insults, all the humiliation—gone!
“Then, when I killed Briggs, the true inspiration came to me in a flash. The Sinners should die by their own hand, so to speak—by their own sins. After that it was a wonderful game to work out the variations. Pelham the Proud should die literally in the eyes of his peers. McKay the Pleasure Seeker in the throes of carnal lust. Pascal was to choke on his own creation. I was especially proud of that particular conceit but you spoiled it all with your meddling, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
“Your sin should be ‘A’ for Arrogance, my friend. Did you really think that you could walk into my parlour and prevail?”
“Clearly, I was mistaken. So what is my fate to be?”
“I believe you deserve the highest accolade of all, Mr. Holmes. Let us return to the font of all wisdom in this of all places. You shall receive the Kiss of Kor …”
Still covering Holmes with his revolver, Staunton backed slowly towards the mantlepiece. Beside it hung a tasselled cord. When his hand encountered it, he tugged it viciously. Deep in the recesses of the house I heard a bell peal.
From my pocket I pulled my service revolver and cocked it as quietly as possible. I felt sure Holmes would want me to wait until he gave me a sign but of one thing I was sure. That devil Staunton was not leaving this room alive, if John H. Watson had any say in the matter.
