Colonel Ridlington was a tall, florid man of once muscular build, attested to by his military carriage, but he had grown an enormous paunch which bore witness to a very sedentary life in recent years.
“Please sit down, Colonel Ridlington, and allow me to introduce my trusted friend, Dr. Watson. You may speak before him with the same confidence that you may before me.”
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I should like to say at the outset that I am here because what has happened is rather trivial on the surface, and I hope that I shall not be wasting your time by relating the matter.”
“I shall be most happy to give you my opinion as to whether the case is trivial or whether it has a deeper aspect to it,” said Holmes. “What often appears to be unimportant to the layman is often of vital interest to me.”
“Very well, then. Let me explain why I have come to you. I served in our Indian army for thirty years before I retired at the beginning of this year. I was stationed throughout the East, but the last five years were spent in Nepal, where I was put in charge of Gurkha recruitment. I lived in Katmandu but often visited other parts of the country, including the Tarai. It was a rather easy existence, if I say so myself, for I saw no combat and did not fire a shot except on shikar in the jungle. My acquaintances in Nepal were many, but they were confined almost entirely to the military class and the rulers.
“It was with a certain surprise, therefore, that, a few days before my departure, I found seated across from me a Buddhist monk who spoke excellent English. He told me that he was a native of the Katmandu Valley, a Newar, and that he had studied in Ceylon and had travelled as far as England, where he had met with many interested in the Buddhist religion. He had just returned to Nepal and had visited the Buddha’s birthplace at Lumbini and had taken up residence in a small monastery on the Swayambhu hill. It was while circumambulating that great shrine, he said, that he had been given a stone sculpture of the Buddha. The donor was a rich Burmese pilgrim who through piety wished that the statue would someday be revered in the West. Having learned from one of the guards at the Residence of my imminent departure, he asked if I might take the sculpture with me to England, where it would be claimed by a monk now living in London and leading a small group of English Buddhists in the study of the Doctrine. The name of the group was the Oriental Society of London, with their shrine near Russell Square on Bedford Street. He assured me that the statue was of no consequence from an artistic point of view but that its safe arrival would do much to increase the compassion of the small band of followers of the Buddha now studying in England.
“So earnest and sincere did the monk appear that I informed him that I would be willing to take it as part of my personal belongings but that I should like to see it for myself before I gave my final consent. The monk appeared the next day, and it was as he had said: it was a modern reproduction in stone, done by a mediocre craftsman in the ancient city of Patan, and standing about thirty inches high. I accepted it and arranged that it be packaged along with my possessions. I gave it no further thought.”
“A most interesting beginning. Pray continue, my dear Colonel,” said Holmes.
“I arrived in England just two weeks ago and settled in the small village of Wyck Rissington in Gloucestershire. My family had kept a house there for many generations. Being the sole survivor and unmarried as well, I had inherited the entire estate directly upon my father’s demise five years before. I had kept an old housekeeper to look after things while I was abroad. It was unsettling to learn, therefore, when I arrived, that the housekeeper had died the year before and the house had been unattended for many months. It is a rather large mansion, Mr. Holmes, built by Sir Roger Ridlington, my ancestor, in 1779, and it showed the neglect that a recently impoverished family had been forced to ignore. I spent the first day clearing a living space for myself amidst the dusty clutter. On the following day, as I had been informed, my personal cargo promptly arrived, and I set about sorting through the souvenirs and possessions accumulated in my thirty years in the Orient.
“I am not a collector, Mr. Holmes, and so I was somewhat startled when I saw the number of objects that I had managed to accumulate through the years, thoughtlessly I might say. I promised myself that I would quickly dispose of much of what now struck me as quite useless. I sorted rather quickly and by evening I had managed to open everything and find at least a temporary dwelling for most articles of importance. It was at this moment that I remembered the Buddhist monk and his request. I searched through the remaining crates, unpacked the Buddha, and placed him gently upon a table in the drawing room. I then wrote a short note to the monk resident in London to whom it was to be delivered, informing him of the arrival of his charge and asking him to retrieve it at his earliest convenience.
“After a late supper, I continued my work. To my surprise, in one of the last remaining crates there was another figure of the Buddha, identical to the first in every way, at least to my unpracticed eye. I was a bit annoyed at having another piece of stone to store in what was already becoming a sea of odd objects. One Buddha on display was enough, I thought. Where to put the second one? I was rapidly running out of space to put things. It was then that I remembered that one of the mantels in the great hall had a secret compartment behind it. Removing the second Buddha from its crate, I placed it in the secret place away from sight, and put the empty crate in a storage closet.”
As I listened to the Colonel’s account, I threw an occasional glance at Holmes. At our visitor’s last revelation, the look of disinterested amusement that had played across his face had been replaced by the deepest concentration.
“By this time it was very late, and I had had enough,” said the Colonel.
“It was about midnight when I retired, and I slept quite soundly. I rose at about eight the following morning and went into the kitchen to prepare some tea, when I noticed that the back door was ajar. I remembered distinctly having locked it before I retired. Someone must have entered during the night, I thought. I hurried quickly to the drawing room to see if it had been vandalised. Everything, however, appeared to be in good order until I noticed, to my chagrin, that the stone Buddha was missing from the table where I had placed it. Someone had indeed entered, but I had been fortunate, for whoever it had mistaken a rather shoddy modern copy for a work of art. Nothing else appeared to be missing.”
“Most extraordinary, Colonel Ridlington,” said Holmes. “I am afraid that your account thus far leads me to believe that this is far from a trivial matter. May I suggest that you employ a guard immediately to watch your house?”
“I have taken some precautions, Mr. Holmes, at least for the time of my visit here. Had matters ended there I would not be with you today. I spent the following day in routine business in the village. I was gone for about four or five hours. When I entered the house, I noticed that the Buddha had been returned to its spot on the table in the drawing room. Nothing else in the drawing room appeared to have been disturbed until I noticed that someone had entered the storage area where I had placed the empty crate that contained the second Buddha. Whoever had entered had hoped that the break-in would not be immediately noticed. The lock had been broken, but closed to avoid notice, and the door had been shut tight. When I pulled it open, however, I found that what I had carefully stored had been thrown about as if someone had searched in a great hurry. It was then that I noticed that the crate had been smashed and broken into. The burglar had failed, however, to find the second Buddha. It was at this point that I decided to present the matter to you for your judgement.”
“I can assure you, Colonel Ridlington, that this is hardly a trivial matter,” said Holmes. “I can also assure you that, with a bit of luck, we may be able to resolve it quickly. I should like to accompany you to your home in Gloucestershire so that I may have a first-hand look at the premises. And the second Buddha, of course.”
Holmes turned to me and said, “Watson, this is a case in which I must ask you to remain here and not travel with me to
Gloucestershire. I request only that you leave with us now and return at once through the back entrance, making sure that no one sees you re-enter. Remain inside until I reappear. And Watson, once you have returned, I must ask that you remain in the bedroom with the curtains drawn till dawn, when you may move about freely in the front rooms as well.”
I was at once mystified and disappointed at Holmes’s request, for I had hoped to accompany him in what appeared to be a case more interesting than I had originally thought, but I did as he requested. I knew also that it would be hopeless to ask for an explanation. The two of us left together with Colonel Ridlington. As we approached the crowd on Oxford Street we parted, and I re-entered our quarters from the back. By this time it was dusk, and I was certain that I had entered unseen.
I passed a difficult night, for the summer heat did not abate in the darkness. I finally sat on the floor below the window with a candle, trying to read my medical journals. I must have fallen asleep at last, for when I awoke, it was early morning. The candle had burned down to nothing, and I was stiff from having lain on the floor the better part of the night. I rose and went into the drawing room, my mind filled with Ridlington’s odd story of the previous afternoon. Holmes had not returned and I presumed that he was still in Gloucestershire.
It was about eleven in the morning when Mrs. Hudson appeared and said that two delivery men were downstairs with a large parcel for Mr. Holmes. I directed that they be shown up. As they entered I paid little attention, for an article on tropical diseases of the kidney had caught my eye.
“Where to, guv’na?” said one of them, a rather old man dressed in tattered clothes. I motioned to the centre of the room and kept on reading. The old man handed me a pen and a delivery slip to sign.
“Sign here, quickly, Watson,” said a familiar voice,” for we haven’t a moment to lose.”
I looked up in disbelief. As the old man straightened up, he seemed to shed years, and I knew that I was looking at my friend.
“Holmes!” I cried.
“Correct, Watson, correct! And my colleague in the transport business, Mr. Anthony Gregson of Scotland Yard.”
Gregson removed his delivery man’s cap and bowed. “My pleasure, guv’na,” he said.
“Holmes, for the love of God, you owe me a bit of an explanation. Why such a trick?”
I was annoyed, not so much because I had failed to recognise him, but because I had been doubly fooled and had to suffer through Holmes’s obvious sarcasm and Gregson’s deep satisfaction.
“Please accept my apologies, Watson. You have played a vital role so far in this affair and will continue to do so. Please accompany Mr. Gregson into the other room and exchange clothes with him. And pack a further change of clothes, your own, into this sack and bring it along. I shall explain all in due course.”
As he spoke, Holmes went over to the settee, moved it, and then lifted the floor. It was an old hiding place that he had used on many occasions in the past. He placed the package in the large space below, replacing the floor and the settee in quick, deliberate motions. He then peered through the curtains at the street below and smiled quietly.
I did as he requested, and with his help looked as much the delivery man as Gregson, who remained behind, hidden in my bedroom.
Holmes’s conduct so far I found totally bewildering, and as usual in his haste he chose not to offer any explanation. We crossed Baker Street, then proceeded through a back alley to an abandoned building, where Holmes picked the lock and we entered easily. Here we changed into our street clothes, leaving the delivery men’s uniforms in a heap on the floor.
“There is little time to talk, Watson. We are close to a final meeting with an archcriminal. It will be dangerous, but I believe we have every chance of success.”
Now in our usual dress, Holmes and I went out on the street and walked home. Holmes’s eyes scoured every passers-by, but we did not stop until we had reached our quarters.
“And now, Watson,” said he as we entered, “unless I miss my guess, the bell will ring in a few minutes, and Mrs. Hudson will usher in our next guest.”
In less than five minutes the bell sounded, and Mrs. Hudson, a perplexed look on her face, said that there was a gentleman to see us. She ushered in a Buddhist monk in saffron robes. His face had a definite European cast to it despite the shaven head and the other accoutrements of his religion.
Holmes’s eyes flashed with the delight of a fisherman who has just felt a great tug on his line.
“Watson,” he said almost gleefully, “I would like to present to you Mr. Jack Evans, who, if I am not mistaken, hails from Salt Lake City. He is wanted in America in seven different states for burglary and illegal entry. He has been one of the mainstays of the Anton Furer gang.”
The monk’s demeanour changed as soon as Holmes had identified him.
“‘I’m not here to argue with ya, Holmes. Where’s the stuff? Furer sent me and this time he ain’t kiddin.’”
The absurd contradiction between the monk’s costume and his rough American brought a smile to my lips. But it was short-lived. The door to the flat was suddenly thrown open and another monk stood before us.
“And this,” said Holmes without turning around to look at the intruder, “is the infamous Anton Furer, the chief art thief of our time. My compliments, Anton, for having evaded arrest for so long. I an delighted that you could not resist coming here. Please be seated.”
“I have no time to waste, Holmes. This is the last time that you have interfered with my plans. Please, we are both armed and neither of us is prepared to leave without the object for which we came.”
Furer was a taller than I expected, thinner, more desperate-looking than I had imagined, with eyes that darted quickly through the room, examining everything in sight as he spoke. As he searched, he found nothing, and an oath passed through his lips.
“Where is it, Holmes?” he asked.
“I am afraid that it is not available for inspection,” said Holmes, lighting his pipe. “Evans,” he continued, “be so good as to look out the window onto the street. If you do, you will notice that this building is surrounded by police.”
“He’s bluffing,” said Furer.
“No, he’s not. Raise your hands, please.”
The words came from Gregson, who had suddenly opened the door as if by signal from Holmes. In an instant, Holmes had disarmed Furer and clapped a gun to Evans’s head. The bewildered Furer gave no further resistance.
“I invite you, Anton, to look below if you wish. I assure you that even had you been able to murder us, your arrest was inevitable. I should tell you also that your colleagues at the Oriental Society of London have been apprehended as well. You know, you really should have learned by now.”
An evil scowl covered Furer’s face, for Holmes had entrapped him easily, and so great was the anger that shown through his eyes that I imagined that he would have torn Holmes and the rest of us limb from limb had he been able to free himself. Gregson handcuffed him and Evans and led them into the street, where they were immediately taken to jail.
“Well, Holmes, you must be pleased with yourself. A very easy end to a long career of criminal activity. My congratulations and, if I may add, my mystifications. Somehow I feel as though I have missed most of the tale.”
“You have, Watson, and through no fault of your own. Most of what transpired over the last two days is simply the end of a very long sequence of events, the major part of which transpired in India a long time ago, a part with which you could not be familiar. Perhaps it would be of interest if I related to you the parts of this story that remain hidden from view.”
“Indeed,” said I. “It would be most helpful.”
“But first, a look at the treasure that eluded Furer’s grasp and eventually led to his downfall.”
Holmes removed the small rug from the centre of the room and quickly lifted the floor boards. He removed the package that he had stored below and unwrapped it, revealing a bust of th
e Buddha. Holmes turned the statue on its side and tapped the bottom with his fingers.
“It is hollow, as I thought,” he said. “Watson, quickly, let me have the large shears from your bag.”
I handed them over. Holmes took them and broke a hole through the rather thin plaster that covered the bottom. In a few minutes he had carved a large hole, revealing a space inside the statue in which we now could see a rectangular object covered with what appeared to be a piece of cloth. It was a piece of silk brocade in red and gold, very old and worn, but still of the greatest beauty. As soon as the hole was large enough for it to pass through, Holmes inserted his hand and pulled it forth. His eyes were bright with excitement now.
“Now,” he said, “Watson, if I am not mistaken, we have here one of the great treasures of the ancient world.”
He lay the object on the table, and proceeded to unwrap it. A golden object appeared, a small box or chest, with magnificent designs and sculptures on it. There appeared to be some ancient form of writing on it amidst the designs.
Holmes smiled. “I had this almost in my hands several years ago, and thought that it might be forever lost. Do you know what it is?”
“I must say it is impressive. Is it perhaps a reliquary?”
“It contains the royal jewels of Kanishka, king of the Kushans, a war-like race who controlled a vast empire that stretched from northern India well into central Asia almost two thousand years ago. There is an inscription on the cover in their script, the Kharosthi, if memory serves, which bears testimony to this. Let us remove the cover and see what it contains.”
It was indeed as Holmes had claimed. The box was filled with the most beautiful gold jewellery, studded with rubies, sapphires, and emeralds.
“Look at this, Watson!” he cried. He was holding a large ring of gold. It had two beautifully intertwined serpents carved on its sides and at its top the swastika, the ancient symbol of good luck. It glistened in the late afternoon sun that was now streaming through the window.
The Oriental Casebook of Sherlock Holmes Page 12
