Holmes remained silent, enjoying the spectacular hues of dawn sunlight on the last of the clouds.
“Did you find what you wanted in Lhasa?” Elizabeth finally asked him.
“I did sell my articles.” Holmes rearranged his clothing and dug into a pocket and pulled out a cigarette—a European style ready-rolled cigarette carefully preserved in a vacuum tin. After he had lit it and drawn on it, he said slowly: “I visited the Polata and spoke to the Llama.”
“And?”
He stared out across the river, remembering. “He was indeed a wise man. He had no answers but one and that was to find what I seek I must look inside of me, not for symbols or signs from elsewhere.”
Elizabeth remained silent and Holmes glanced at her. “Yes…you knew that all the time, didn’t you?”
“You are not one of the weak, Holmes. You already have all the wisdom and strength you need. You simply have to find it.”
Holmes nodded. “I have made a crucial mistake,” he said.
“I am sure it is not your first.”
“It probably won’t be the last, but I swear I will never make the same mistake again.”
“I am listening.”
He hesitated a little. “If Moriarty and our adventures in Switzerland hadn’t happened, I would still have made this trip. Except I would have been alone. As we’ve learned, I would probably dead as a result. However, it didn’t happen that way. Even before we left Persia I had begun to think I didn’t need to visit Lhasa. It wasn’t a conscious thought, but an unsettling feeling of…completeness. I have traveled over half way around the globe, most of it on foot and through some of the most god-forsaken country in the world, only to discover I’d brought my happiness along with me.” He glanced at her quickly. “I have wasted so much of your time, Elizabeth.”
“It hasn’t been wasted,” she replied softly. “We take back the gift of solitude with us.”
“I have put you in danger. That will remain a constant for the rest of your life. Being closely associated with my name is hazardous.”
“You have tried to compensate for that,” she pointed out, her hand dropping to the hilt of her knife tucked into her belt.
“I have tried to develop your abilities. It is hardly a fair bargain. You’ve had very little choice in the matter so far. Perhaps I should give you a chance to decide.”
She touched his arm. “It is time to go back, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is time we returned,” he replied. “It would be selfish to remain here any longer.”
•ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï•
Typically, once he had made up his mind, Holmes could tolerate no delays in implementing his decisions. With seething agitation, he pressed the arrangements to leave.
Elizabeth was equally anxious to depart at the soonest date, for she had been keeping a vigilant eye on the weather. Holmes had returned from Lhasa in late October and Elizabeth knew the mild autumn would not stay much longer.
With both keen to hasten their departure, they managed to find a guide that was willing to show them the western route along Tibet’s low summer valleys and across the mountains, straight into Persia. The very route, in fact, that Sullah had been adamant they not tackle, two years before and the same route that Ch’ang T’i had been using when Sullah’s people had found him, eleven years before.
It seemed to Elizabeth they were destined to be forever travelling into bad weather. However, she was confident of their guide’s knowledge and both Holmes and she were so much more experienced, now, in surviving the harsh conditions.
On November 1, 1893, as near as they could tally it, they left for Mashhad with the guide, two yaks as beasts of burden, six goats on the hoof, a dressed sheep, barley meal, a small bag of dried tea leaves and the shy, warm wishes of an entire village for god speed and good luck.
“We needed every bit of luck they offered us,” Elizabeth told me. “For we lost our guide just out of sight of the Persian plains and we had to navigate ourselves by stars and moon—when we had a clear night, that is. Usually it was overcast and we simply followed our noses.”
They arrived on Sullah’s doorstep barely a week before Christmas, pushing their way the last mile through a storm that settled into a blizzard that lasted three days.
Winter had arrived and had they followed their intentions, they would have stayed throughout winter once again. But a message from Mycroft was waiting for Holmes—a message that had been sent nearly six months earlier to his last known location, via paid carriers. It had been held by Sullah’s household staff until Sullah’s return to the homestead. Sullah’s return had preceded Holmes’ by a mere three weeks and Sullah had been at a loss regarding the message’s further progress.
That was solved by Holmes’ arrival, but the contents of the letter were sufficient to prevent Holmes from settling for too long.
Mycroft had gathered a large quantity of facts and information relevant to Holmes’ situation throughout his younger brother’s absence from London. The distillation of this intelligence was contained in his letter for Holmes to absorb and upon which to base sound decisions concerning their future.
Amongst many of the significant facts was the news of Straker’s imprisonment for the murder of an innocent victim and the death of two of Holmes’ bitterest enemies—one from natural means and the other a boating accident in a Scottish loch.
Elizabeth was as quick to grasp the significance of this news as Holmes. She tapped the particular sheet of Mycroft’s letter where it lay on the table between them. “Holmes, this means only Moran is loose to cause mischief. If we could somehow contain him….”
Holmes nodded. “Yes, but we must proceed cautiously. Moran’s ‘mischief’ is a potent brew indeed.”
There were other, politically important, instructions in Mycroft’s letter and for these, Holmes approached Sullah for help.
“Khartoum?” Sullah repeated aloud, putting the letter down on the low table before him. Holmes had found him in his private salon, from where Sullah carried out most of his daily business of overseeing the extensive organization of his household and grazing lands. “But the Sudan is peaceful now. The Khalifa has smoothed out all the wrinkles. Besides, he is at Omdurman, not Khartoum. That is where you will get most of your information.”
“I will start with Khartoum,” Holmes answered. “Or finish there. That is where most of the Europeans are and we can travel up to Omdurman as we need to.”
“We can buy what European supplies we need at Khartoum,” Elizabeth pointed out, patting her trouser-encased knees.
“Khartoum….” Sullah intoned, leaning back into his cushions, his brow wrinkled.
“At fastest speed,” Holmes added.
Sullah remained silent, his eyes shut. Holmes and Elizabeth kept the silence, waiting patiently for Sullah to finish his contemplation.
After several long moments, he opened his eyes, clapped his hands twice, sharply and called out in Persian for his maps. The requested maps were speedily brought and spread out across the table.
“There is fastest speed and there is safest speed when crossing the deserts,” Sullah warned them. “But in winter the two are closer than in summer. Cross the desert you must, if you wish to travel to Khartoum as directly as you can.” He pointed out the route on the maps. “From Teheran to Isfahan and to Shiraz on the Gulf. You must cross the Arabian Empty Quarter, through to Mecca, down to Jeddah and across the Red Sea to Port Sudan. There are ships crossing nearly every day, so that will not hamper your speed. Hhmmm.”
Sullah paused, frowning, staring at the map. “Only an imbecile would cross these deserts without a guide—without someone who knows how.” He caught Holmes’ impatient motion out of the corner of his eye and held up a finger in warning. “No, not even clever imbeciles who cross the Swiss Alps alone.” He shook his head gently. “In the Empty Quarter you can die faster and in ways that number more than the people of your wonderful London. You must believe me in this a
nd do as I say. Arabs have spent thousands of years living in these lands and even they with all their expertise and experience of living and travelling through deserts cannot tame the Empty Quarter.”
“And what of Persia’s deserts?” Elizabeth asked Sullah. “Are they to be as feared?”
Sullah smiled grimly. “All deserts should be respected. But my country’s deserts…these are not a problem. Even the children of my household are familiar with each oasis and wadi. I can find you a guide to help you down to the sea and across the gulf. But someone who is familiar with the Empty Quarter?” He frowned again. “There is only one person I know who has traveled across the Arabian peninsula often enough to be useful.”
“Who?” Holmes asked, restraining his impatience.
“Me,” Sullah said simply. He laughed, one of his great bellows. “If you must risk your lives on such a reckless dash across three of the world’s worst deserts, it is only fair that I as your friend should share the risk. Besides, it is the perfect opportunity to pay my debt to Elizabeth.” He put his hand on his heart and nodded his head toward her. “I will lead you both to Khartoum.”
The mounted party that left Mashhad in early January 1894 numbered eight, and included two of Sullah’s sons and three of his most capable caravan guards.
Sullah, with true tradesman’s thrift, planned to wait in Khartoum with Elizabeth until Holmes’ information gathering assignment for the Foreign Office had been completed and then travel with Holmes and Elizabeth as far as Suez, where they would part.
Sullah would then travel up the eastern Mediterranean coast, taking advantage of the unique opportunity to buy and sell in these foreign markets. His caravan would be led by his eldest son to Constantinople, where Sullah intended to convene the two parties and continue with his annual carpet sale.
Their trip across the deserts was arduous, but rapid. As promised, Sullah lead them across the burning plains as swiftly as safe travel would permit. But their speed was not too fast for them to learn and understand just how dangerous it would have been had they attempted the trip alone.
They reached Khartoum in February. Dressed as Arabs, as they had been for their journey, they blended into the indigenous population with experienced ease. This had been Holmes’ intention. They had learnt from their time in Constantinople that tongues were looser when Europeans were absent and Holmes intended to draw out every scrap of information available for Mycroft’s associates.
Rumors were endemic and Holmes soon had a wealth of speculation and gossip. Within twenty-four hours of their arrival, he moved onto Omdurman, leaving Elizabeth and Sullah in Khartoum. There, he completed his extraordinary interview with the Khalifa, who found this strange Englishman in Arab dress much easier to talk to than any other representative of that odd race. He found him such a congenial listener, in fact, that Holmes was able to confirm much that had been worrying the British government for some time concerning Britain’s affairs in that corner of the world.
Holmes and Elizabeth planned to travel by sea through the Suez Canal and across the Mediterranean to Marseilles, on the French coast. There were also ships that traveled directly from Aden to England, but they chose to approach home circumspectly. Poised for the final passage, they could wait in France until Holmes received a clear sign of Moran’s activities or otherwise deemed it time to return to London.
This route to France was well-frequented by the British, for apart from journeying by sea, one was forced by the sentinels of desert to travel along the narrow Nile valley—a picturesque, although lengthy, journey that Holmes in his desire to move on would not countenance. He needed to reach either of the port cities of the canal so he could dispatch his report to England and delay was intolerable.
Since the trouble began in the Sudan, the country hosts many British. As a consequence, trades and services considered essential by the Englishman had sprung up in all the cities. So it was with unexpected reluctance Holmes and Elizabeth purchased and donned European style clothing and re-adopted the customs and habits of “the Mad English.” Elizabeth, perhaps, had a little more enthusiasm, though she confessed the constrictive fashions were initially uncomfortable after the freedom of trousers. Sullah, too, converted to European clothing for the duration of their voyage up the Red Sea.
It was Elizabeth who discovered my bereavement, as reported in an old copy of the Times she found beneath a dusty pile of periodicals in the hotel foyer, on their last evening in Khartoum. She took the paper to their rooms and showed it to Holmes.
“I am sorry he suffered through it alone,” he told her.
“Even if we rushed home, the fastest route we can take is the one we’re taking,” Elizabeth said. “And the paper is three months old….”
“Nevertheless, I am relieved we are continuing on tomorrow.” He put the paper aside. “Apart from the report to London, I am anxious to reach Aden. I do not trust any of the wire services in this country and I can arrange for money with the bank in Aden.”
•ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï• •ï¡÷¡ï•
Two weeks later they were in Marseilles. Holmes observed England from this near neighbor, judging the timing of his return. The cable services between the two countries and the two brothers fairly steamed, as they exchanged cryptic information. Based on this new collection of data, Holmes confirmed his decision to wait.
They moved on to Montpelier, which was strategic for two reasons; Holmes was familiar with the city and the countryside and knew several people there. One of his acquaintances would be able to host them and they could thereby avoid using easily investigated hostels, inns, or hotels and remain a little better sheltered from possible detection.
The second reason was purely self-indulgent. Holmes knew the owner of a research laboratory and was able to arrange that he work there, gratifying his curiosity regarding coal-tar derivatives, at the same time distracting his mind from his simmering impatience, which was agitated by the nearness of London and his goals, and his enforced idleness.
The French of that district have an enjoyable custom of not segregating their women after dinner. All the diners sojourn to a lounging room where they consume coffee and after dinner liquors, while the host and hostess skillfully lead off conversation.
It was at this point one evening, nearly two months after their arrival in Montpelier, when Elizabeth looked up from her conversation with their hostess and observed Holmes standing by a small table next to the heavily curtained windows. He had casually pushed a newspaper around with his forefinger and was scanning an article on the back page. To casual observation it appeared he was just pausing and would move off in a moment to rejoin conversation. Only Elizabeth sensed a sudden tension in him, a taut thrumming of nerves and pulse.
He glanced toward her to see if she was watching and his finger tapped the paper. Then, casually, he moved back to the group he had left.
Elizabeth excused herself and moved over to the paper. With a frown of concentration she began mentally translating headlines. The only one which might have caused the sudden alertness in Holmes was a report on the strange murder of Ronald Adair, in London. She began to translate the article, but gave up and scanned it instead. Almost instantly her sight was caught and held by a name within the print. “Colonel Sebastian Moran.” It was enough to tell her what had caught Holmes’ attention.
She looked around for him, but he had disappeared. She guessed Holmes was making their excuses.
She picked up her skirts and left the room, heading for their suite.
Holmes found her there, packing a small bag. She had already changed into travelling clothes. She paused only long enough to say, “I guessed speed would be the priority. Shall I ask Elise to pack our luggage and send it after us?’
“I have already seen to it.” He disappeared into the bedroom and emerged a few minutes later in a dark suit and heavy overcoat. Elizabeth closed the catches on the bag and he picked it up.
“Let us go home,” he said.
•
Chapter Nine •
_________________________
•ï¡÷¡ï•
“THAT’S WHEN THE odyssey ceased,” Elizabeth finished. “When Holmes saw the report on Adair’s murder, his heart and mind were picked up and dropped back upon London and for a while it was as if he had never left.”
The tale of their adventures had taken many months in the telling, for I had soon quit my sick bed and time for stories was limited after that. Generally we snatched a couple of hours here and there a week and Elizabeth would take up her narrative where she left off. Of course, the tale I have set down here is extended and detailed beyond Elizabeth’s telling, for I have included all the adventures she had told me before and the stories and viewpoints I have managed to drag from a reluctant Holmes over the years.
Much of my information I received from another, quite unexpected source. At first I did not appreciate the worth of that source at all. In fact, my foolishness very nearly lost me an invaluable friendship.
Nearly three years after Holmes’ return to London, the three of us went walking through Hyde Park one late afternoon in autumn. A cool breeze was ruffling the last of the withered leaves on overhead branches and the freshness of the day was very pleasant after the lagging heat of summer. We had lingered.
“I believe you’re not telling me something,” Elizabeth said, addressing Holmes. She paused to negotiate a rut in the path, lifting her skirts a little. “You’ve checked your watch surreptitiously nearly a dozen times during our walk. Have you noticed, John?”
Chronicles of the Lost Years (The Sherlock Holmes Series) Page 13
