by Ted Riccardi
“Of course,” said Holmes. “I acquainted the good doctor with the chief facts just before you arrived. But your own account would be most welcome. We have just enough time before we must meet with Lestrade,” said Holmes looking at the clock.
Holmes stoked the fire, and our guest began his account. Sensing that we would be there for most of the morning, Mrs. Hudson anticipated our needs and brought in a new pot of tea.
“This case has haunted me for over thirty years,” he began, “ever since the beginnin’ of my career. I had joined the Union Army when I was eighteen and after service for two years, the Civil War ended, and I was discharged. I then joined the New Mexico police and was assigned then to Las Cruces, a growin’ town in the south of the territory. Lawlessness was rampant. Gangs of outlaws and Indians—mainly Apaches and Comanches—preyed upon the new settlers who came looking to set up small farms and ranches. I was given an area north of the town to patrol, one that had been recently cleaned out of outlaws by the army from Fort Union. So it was pretty peaceful when I began. I rode all day ’cause I liked to be in the saddle, and I stopped at all the new homesteads, makin’ sure that all were happy and content. For three months the work went pretty well. Except for some big family rows, all that I had to contend with was pretty petty.
“One mornin’—must have been now almost thirty years ago—I was ridin’ on some land that belonged to a local rancher named Juan Archuleta. Juan was a friend of mine, about my age—we had grown up together—and he had recently set up a small ranch with a few cattle, no more’n a few hundred head. Because some of his cattle had disappeared as soon as he brought them there, he decided to fence them in. But then he found that the fences had been cut in several places and his cattle run off. After talkin’ it over with him, I decided to inspect the fences myself. Somebody, it seemed, was up to no good. Maybe I could find out who it was.
“I remember that it was the worst weather that anyone could remember. The old timers, both gringos and Mexicans as well as Indians, couldn’t recall a drier spring. It was in fact a drought, the worst in fifty years, they said. There had been no rain for six months, and the melt from the mountain snows was too little to help. It was the month of June, and the water holes and ponds were dryin’ up every where. The grass was brown and dead. I remember thinkin’ that it looked like winter when everythin’ dies, only it was hot, the sun without mercy.
“Anyway, it was about nine in the mornin’ when I set out to check Juan’s fences. I rode for about two hours into the desert. The fences in several places had indeed been cut, not broken, and I saw the tracks of several horses mixed with those of the cattle. Their trail led far to the west. I followed it for a time, then decided that, rather than follow it alone, I would return for help. We had been told at headquarters that there was a good chance that the Beaumont gang, led by Nick Beaumont and Ronald Kincaid, were up from El Paso and rustlin’ all the cattle they could find. Rather than try to take them on alone, I took a shortcut to the southwest back to Las Cruces.
“Then, what happens so often in New Mexico happened. The blue sky suddenly began to disappear and black clouds rolled in on the first cool winds in months. Flashes of lightnin’ lit up the whole sky and there was the loudest thunder I ever heard. I decided to head for cover. In the distance I saw a rocky ridge where I thought I might find shelter. I got my horse to run like the wind and lucky for me, for suddenly we were hit, my horse and I, with huge hailstones that fell everywhere just as we reached the ridge, I mean that hail was somethin’ else again.”
Vasquez stopped for a moment and sipped his tea. “And here, Sherlock, begins the mystery that has been with me since.”
“Pray, continue, Eusebio, we are the willing captives of this drama.”
“Indeed,” said I, mesmerized by our guest and his tale.
“As I approached the ridge, I noticed that it was riddled with small caves, none of which appeared to be very deep but any one sufficient to keep my horse and I out of the storm. I reached the ridge just as the rains poured down on us at their heaviest. I dismounted and led my horse into the nearest cave. We gazed at the rain as it became a torrent, and I thanked the good Lord for this shelter. I sat down near the entrance just out of the rain and took my pistol out of its holster. For I knew from experience that these caves, the likes of which you can find all over New Mexico, often served as dens for a variety of varmints—especially mountain cats, coyotes, and rattlesnakes. I tried to peer into the darkness, but the sky had been too bright and my eyes saw nothin’. I took a drink of water from my flask and held it out in the rain to fill it. As the rain slowed, a cool breeze blew into the cave, and I fell asleep for a time, exhausted by my desperate ride to safety.
“When I awoke, the rains had stopped, and except for a wet spot here or there, you’d never have known that it had rained. They say that water is drier in New Mexico, and maybe it’s so, for you would never have known that there had been such a downpour. The sun told me that it was near four o’clock. I turned toward the inside of the cave. It was about twenty feet deep and I could now see to the back of it. I got up and started to explore it. It was then that I saw, in a far corner, the figure of a man on his knees, his hands tied behind his back to a post. I went over and realized that the shape of a man was all that was left. There was nothing there but skull and bones and the clothes that covered them. He had been shot several times through the head. The skeleton wore the black vestments of a priest. From around his neck hung a gold crucifix and there was a silver ring on the fourth finger of the left hand. From the hands hung a rosary. I noted at the time, and will show you at the appropriate moment, that the rosary was a bit peculiar. The beads appeared not to be made out of glass or metal as usual, but out of some sort of seed or small round pieces of wood. The holes in the skull were the only marks of violence on the remains. But despite the lack of distinguishin’ marks, I realized that I had come upon the corpse of a person who had long before disappeared and whose whereabouts for several years had been unknown. I knew then that I had found the remains of the Italian ascetic and hermit Giovanni Agostini, once a celebrated figure in New Mexico. He had lived on a mountain called Tecolote and such had been his influence among the local people that they changed its name to Hermit’s Peak.
“I left the dead priest where I found him, and returned to report on what I had discovered on my trip. The following day four of us returned to the scene, carefully placed the remains in a rough coffin and returned with them to Las Cruces. An official report, issued after a thorough investigation, declared that indeed Agostini’s remains had been finally found. He had been murdered by assailants unknown. His remains were interred in the cemetery at the great cathedral in Albuquerque. People came from everywhere to show their respect.
“It was just after the funeral ceremony that a very well-to-do gentleman came up to me and said that he wished to speak with me about the deceased. We entered the church and sat down in one of the back pews. He introduced himself as Carlos Romero of Las Vegas, New Mexico. He said that he was the person who had originally brought Father Agostini to the southwest. He had met him on a ship that they both had boarded in Marseilles, bound for Baltimore and New York. He spoke good English. He was impressed with the priest, who told him he wished to spend time alone in spiritual practise. He invited him to his home, and the priest accepted. His ranch, called El Porbenir, was near a suitable mountain—he had climbed it himself many times—and it was from his house that the priest had gone to climb the mountain where he had stayed for several years. He became in a short time a popular figure in the area, known as a miracle worker, and the local people began makin’ the long climb to where the priest stayed. He had found a cave, where he practised his meditation, and he had learned to live off the plants that he found growin’ wild at the summit.
“Romero had to travel often and was busy with his ranchin’ business during the first year of the hermit’s stay. One day he decided to visit him and found that he was not alone. H
e had with him an acolyte, who helped him perform mass. The man was extraordinarily short, almost a dwarf, but powerfully built. The man was not from the region, and when Romero spoke to him, in either English or Spanish, he only grunted in reply. The hermit explained that he was dumb, and that he had been abandoned as a child, for the hermit had found him livin’ alone atop the mountain. He said that he thought he was an Apache. The man seemed harmless enough, but somethin’ in his eyes made Romero uneasy. It was as if he was constantly on guard. And, said Romero, he noted that the man was not truly dumb, for he communicated with the priest in some primitive soundin’ language that he had never heard before. He pried no further, preferrin’ to maintain a certain distance from the priest. The acolyte certainly did not interfere with the priest’s activities in any way and was rarely seen.
“Finally, said Romero, just before the priest left the mountain and disappeared, someone came to El Porbenir lookin’ for him. He was a man, well dressed, and in his early forties, who said he was lookin’ for the priest. His English was good, but he had a heavy Italian accent. He said that he had come because there was a chance that the priest was a long-lost brother of his, and he wanted to meet him to see for himself. His brother, he said, had a history of mental trouble, and his family had sent him to find him. His brother had boarded a ship in Marseilles bound for America but had never been heard from again. A chance meetin’ with one of the passengers on that ship a year later had indicated that a priest had left the ship in the company of a well-known gentleman from northern New Mexico. Upon his arrival in Las Vegas, the Italian had learned of him and the hermit of the mountain. Romero immediately sent word by one of his servants, who returned and said that the priest was gone. Romero himself climbed up to the hermit’s cave with the Italian, and found the place abandoned. The followin’ day, Romero learned that the priest was seen in Las Vegas, from where he was reported to have headed south on foot. The Italian gentleman thanked Romero for his help and said he would follow the priest to see if he could catch up with him. The Italian never returned to El Porbenir, and the priest was never seen again alive.”
Vasquez gulped down his tea and said, “Maybe I should stop there. It’s time to go . . .”
“Indeed, it is,” said Holmes.
The three of us bundled ourselves against the cold, and hailed a cab that took us to Scotland Yard. We arrived just before twelve at Lestrade’s office, where we found the inspector pacing up and down, a smile of triumph on his face. Holmes introduced Vasquez and we sat there as Lestrade began his description of the night’s events. As he reached the end, he said, “And so I arrested Manin, the well-known and jealous paramour, and the old lady Reeve, the accomplice—”
“You would do well to release them immediately, Lestrade,” said Holmes, interrupting him.
I could see Lestrade’s face fall. He had been in this position before many times, and Holmes was rarely easy on him.
“And why is that?” he said meekly.
“First, my dear Lestrade, I must inform you that before the murder I was hired by one of the principals to make a certain investigation of the deceased. In pursuing this investigation, I happened to be at the scene of the crime when Sir Jaswant was murdered, though in disguise. I can assure you that the murderer bears no resemblance to Daniel Manin, and you should release him immediately, poor man, he has done nothing to warrant his arrest.”
“And the old lady, Mrs. Reeve?”
“Safely home in bed, as she claims.”
“Then, pray tell, Mr. Holmes, who was the old lady and where is she now?”
Holmes stood up, “Your humble servant, the old woman, stands before you exposed. Forgive the theatricality, Lestrade, but my disguises are quite good. As to the truth of what I am saying, my friend Watson here can attest to my return home last night not, shall we say, in my usual attire. No, Lestrade, the murderer is sitting here in London, about to leave, if my surmise is correct, and I would ask you to direct your assistant to usher in Mr. Shinwell Johnson as soon as he appears. He will know where the murderer is at this very moment. And now to the morgue.”
Lestrade showed a certain pluck at this moment, despite the unassailability of Holmes’s arguments. “I suppose I could stop you, Holmes, at this juncture from viewing the body since you are connected to one of the principals. And who is that, may I ask?”
“You could stop me, Lestrade, but I could have the necessary papers within the hour to view the remains. As to my client, it is Lady Singh herself. But more of that in due course.”
We rose as a man and followed Lestrade to the morgue. The body of Sir Jaswant Singh lay on a table in front of us. Jones, the forensic pathologist of Scotland Yard, stood by. Holmes motioned me forward.
“Anything unusual, Doctor?”
“It is as you described, Holmes. A direct hit in the center of the chest, destroying the heart. Death instantaneous.”
“Quite correct,” said Jones. “Here is the bullet, which I extracted.”
Holmes took it, examined it and passed it to Vasquez.
“Forty-five caliber, Colt revolver of the most common variety,” said he.
Holmes then took to a minute scrutiny of the dead man, pouring over every inch of him, particularly his wrists and ankles.
“Hallo, what have we here?” said Holmes. He was pointing to a rough patch of skin on the man’s right wrist. I took a look and saw what appeared to be a series of pin pricks.
“And here,” said Holmes, pointing to the left ankle.
“I’ve seen them many times,” said Vasquez. “They’re what you get when you remove a tattoo—”
“Precisely,” said Holmes. “Jones, a pen please. Thank you. Now, if I simply connect the dots . . .”
Holmes skillfully traced the outline of the old tattoo.
“An odd one,” he said, “first the letter A, then the letter I, or so it appears, and then the numeral 3. So much for the wrist. Now the ankle: a triangle with a cross inside, with three marks at the bottom. It is the symbol of the bank. Or very close to it.”
Vasquez’s face became quite dark with thought. He began to pace.
“Holmes, you know what we have here. These are prisoner brands, tattooed on this man at some time in his life. We’ve used them in New Mexico. He obviously had them removed . . . to hide his identity.”
“Precisely, Eusebio, you are quite right. But note. The wrist marking is a tattoo, the ankle mark is a brand, burnt into his flesh with a hot iron, somewhere in this vast Empire of ours. It may have been the supreme irony of this man’s life to employ this common thieves’ mark as the symbol of the prosperity of British might throughout the world.”
Holmes fell silent for a moment, as if in deep thought.
“It is clear now that Sir Jaswant had a past which he wished to deny,” he said. “What that past was we shall soon know, unless I miss my guess. You know, Eusebio, one is sometimes put in the position of Javert . . . the unmasking of a Monsieur Madeleine to find a Jean Valjean.”
“With this difference,” replied Vasquez. “I suspect that our man here is guilty of far more than the stealin’ of a loaf of bread or a pair of silver candlesticks. Tell me, Mr. Jones, what was found on the deceased? Any personal objects, jewelry perhaps?”
“No jewelry, Mr. Vasquez. A few pounds, a pen . . . and this peculiar set of worry beads found round the neck.” He handed a string of beads over to Vasquez, whose face showed immediately a frown of recognition.
“Rudraksa,” said Holmes from across the room, “the beads of Shiva, a common enough devise in India.”
“But not in New Mexico, and yet they are remarkably similar to what I found in the hands of Agostini’s corpse. Look . . .”
There was total silence in the room as Vasquez pulled from his pocket a set of beads precisely like the one found on Sir Jaswant.
“Gentlemen,” said Holmes grimly, “I sense the shrinking of the world around us, that what appears far away and unrelated is all part of a web, made poss
ible by a new world in which nothing is unrelated and nothing is as it seems. Lestrade, do you have here at the Yard the records of our prisons abroad?
“We do, indeed, Holmes,” said the inspector.
“Then let us look up A.I. 3.”
“And what may that be?”
“Very simple, Lestrade, and obvious as soon as one directs one’s attention to it. A.I., unless I am mistaken, refers to the Andaman Islands and our prison at Port Blair. The numeral “3” means the third prisoner placed there. As you may be aware, the prison in the Andamans was opened shortly after the Mutiny in 1857 as the place where the most dangerous prisoners would be housed. Unless I am again mistaken, Sir Jaswant, or whatever his name was at the time, was placed there shortly after the Mutiny itself, considering the low numeral three. Surely hundreds of prisoners have been housed there by now. Let us see, then, if the records of Port Blair show who he was and when he escaped. Then we shall be more able to piece together his later career, in particular how he arrived.”
“In New Mexico,” said Vasquez almost inaudibly.
“Precisely,” said Holmes, staring at Vasquez meaningfully. “Welcome again, Vasquez. I trust that your long obsession may be approaching its fruitful conclusion.”
I must say that at that moment my head was reeling with the quick series of revelations and conclusions that had just presented themselves. Who was Sir Jaswant? I stared at the dead man, his eyes closed now, and wondered what he might have told us had he been so inclined. My confused reverie did not last long, however, for an orderly burst in followed by a frantic Shinwell Johnson.
“Mr. Holmes, sir,” said Shinwell breathlessly, “the man you asked us to watch, sir, he’s been shot. He’s dead. Neary is with him.”
We were out of there in a flash. Lestrade ordered an armed guard to clear the way before us. Shinwell rode with the guard and we followed through the narrow streets of Soho. There in a filthy narrow alley was a small boardinghouse, filled with migrants from across the empire and elsewhere. Our man was in a basement room, dead in his bed. He had been shot in the head and, judging from the wound, possibly by a weapon similar to that which had killed Sir Jaswant. Neary had allowed no one in until our arrival.
