by John Hall
I told him, “In a sense, it is a professional matter which brings me here.”
“Ah, you frown, old friend. Can I help?”
“You are too kind, as always,” I said, “but I fear that it is a purely medical matter. Another old friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes …”
“Mr Holmes? Is he here, too, then? But, you said it was a medical matter? Is Mr Holmes unwell?”
“You cannot possibly know Holmes, Arshak. Even you, with your vast acquaintance …”
He waved a hand. “I cannot claim that honour. But I assure you that I have followed Mr Holmes’ career, as illustrated by your own brilliant accounts, with the keenest possible interest. And I should esteem it a favour if you could introduce me to him … unless, that is, the matter is very grave?” And he regarded me anxiously.
“Oh, it’s nothing physical, I’m sure of that. It is just … well, in a lesser man than Holmes, I’d have called it boredom.”
“Ah! Ennui?”
“Just so.”
“Tedium?”
“Indeed.”
“Le cafard?”
“The point has been made, Arshak.”
He laughed aloud at my starchiness. “Let me buy you some luncheon, my friend …”
“Not a bit of it,” I told him. “I shall buy you luncheon, as some small recompense for all that I owe you.” I glanced at my watch. “It is still a little early, though, so perhaps an aperitif first?”
“Indeed.” He sighed. “Though I could wish that your English barmen might learn to make a decent cocktail. I assure you, old friend, at the ‘Raffles’ we have a man who is a positive genius with gin.1 As it is, I shall be obliged to settle for what your music-hall song calls, dismally and accurately, ‘a half of half-and-half’.”
“Oh, we can do better than that!” I said, and we went off arm in arm to find some refreshment.
Over luncheon, Arshak asked me more about Holmes, and the dark cloud that had descended upon my old friend. I told him some of the details, and digressed as far as saying that at the moment I could sympathize with Holmes, for my own work seemed no longer to hold the attraction that once it held.
And Arshak sat there listening intently, like any Harley Street specialist. When I had done, he shrugged, and said, “Well, Watson, but it seems to me that the answer is clear. You need a holiday, and what’s more Mr Sherlock Holmes needs a holiday.”
With a touch of exasperation, I replied, “But have I not just told you? That is the crux of the whole matter. His life at the moment is one long holiday, and thus the relish has gone from everything he does.”
Arshak shrugged again. “Oh, I did not mean that he should move here to Brighton for a week. No, I had a very different location in mind. A complete change of scenery, in fact. For both of you.”
“Where, then?”
“Singapore. The Raffles Hotel, in fact.”
“You are joking!”
“Not a bit of it.”
“But …” And I stared at him. “You are really not joking?”
He shook his head. “Not in the least.” He smiled at my confusion. “People do come to the ‘Raffles’ for a holiday, you know.”
“Yes, I know that. But …” and I shook my head. “What is your objection, then?”
“Well, the distance, the time to get there …”
Arshak shook his head. “A couple of weeks only. No longer than it took me to get to England. A pleasant sea voyage, the captain’s table, the company of beautiful women and congenial men, good food and wine. Why, the journey is a holiday in itself. I return next week, as a matter of fact. Will you not come with me?”
“I would, like a shot. If it were only me … but, I couldn’t leave Holmes.”
“And why leave him? The whole object of the exercise is to take him along. You will both be my guests, of course. Why should Mr Holmes not come along?”
“I can’t give you any coherent reason why not, and I’m sure Holmes himself could not give you any coherent reason why not.”
“Well, then?”
“But I’m equally sure that Holmes would never agree to go.”
“H’mm.” Arshak sat there, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. Then his face lit up. “Tell me, Watson, did you not once quote Mr Holmes as saying something like, ‘My mind rebels at stagnation … give me an abstruse cryptogram, the most knotty of problems, and I am in my element’?”
“Very likely,” I said gloomily. “It’s exactly the sort of nonsense Holmes would spout.”
“But is it true?”
“Oh, I suppose it’s true enough, as far as it goes. Certainly Holmes thrives on activity, which is half … more than half … the present trouble.”
“In that case,” said Arshak, “we shall have him. Just introduce me to Mr Holmes, old friend, and leave the rest to me.”
Arshak had a carriage at his disposal, and we took the short drive into Fulworth, where I believe my old friend caused quite a stir, judging by the frenzied twitching of lace curtains as we strolled down the narrow, steep little street that was all the place boasted. Then we took the cliff path – a very different walk from that of the previous evening, I reflected. I told Arshak of my summons and my soaking, and we laughed over it together.
Holmes was moping in his room when we reached his cottage, and Martha had to call him. He looked quizzically as he saw Arshak standing there.
“Ah, Holmes, may I introduce Arshak Sarkies, from the famous hotel dynasty? You’ve heard me speak of him, I know, and if by some chance you haven’t, then at any rate you’ll have heard of the famous Raffles Hotel.”
“Your name is familiar to me, Mr Sarkies,” said Holmes, “and I am delighted to meet you.”
“And I to meet you at last, sir, for your name is at least as familiar to me as mine is to you.” Arshak looked at my friend in admiration. “It was indeed a sad loss to society when you elected to retire from practice, Mr Holmes.” He shook his head. “In fact, I wish you were in Singapore right this moment, or that I might persuade you to return there with me next week.”
Despite himself, Holmes was intrigued, as he was by any little puzzle. “Oh, and why is that?” he asked.
Arshak shrugged. “You see, Mr Holmes, we have … ah, a little problem at the Raffles Hotel. Oh, it is nothing serious, nothing that will harm our guests, or put them off staying, but still … there is no point discussing it, for you are not there, and there’s an end of it.” And he changed the subject, completely ignoring all Holmes’ efforts to define or discuss the ‘little problem’.
At a convenient break in the conversation, I interjected, “You know, Holmes, I haven’t been anywhere near Singapore for years, now. I wouldn’t mind going to the ‘Raffles’ and have a look at the place, for I’ve heard so much about it. And if you went along too, you could look into Arshak’s problem.”
Holmes waved a languid hand, in the manner of some effeminate Roman emperor ordering up another dozen Christians for the arena, and mumbled some nonsense or other.
“Why not?” asked Arshak eagerly. “The management of the ‘Raffles’ would pay your expenses, of course, and a reasonable fee for your services. Can I not tempt you out of retirement for this one last case, Mr Holmes?”
I added my voice to that of the tempter. “Yes, Holmes, why not?”
Holmes looked from one to another of us. “You think I might be of some use?” he asked Arshak.
“There is truly no-one I would rather see at the Raffles Hotel than you, Mr Holmes.”
Holmes smiled. “I feel that I am the victim of a conspiracy,” he told us. “But it is, I know, a benign and friendly conspiracy.” He stood up and offered Arshak his hand. “Very well, Mr Sarkies, you have intrigued me, and made me a very kind offer, which it would be churlish to refuse. I am your man. I shall come with you to the Raffles Hotel.”
“I am delighted to hear you say so, Mr Holmes. And now, I fear I must take my leave.”
“I’ll go with you as far as the village,
” I told him.
As I accompanied Arshak down the cliff path back into Fulworth, I asked him, “But what will you say when we get to Singapore and Holmes asks the nature of your problem?”
“Oh, we have a problem, right enough,” said Arshak very seriously. “It concerns the veranda.”
I laughed. “Oh? A loose board, perhaps?”
“More important than that. We get wild animals lurking round the place.”
“Wild animals?”
“Singapore is not quite so settled as London or Brighton, you know. We sometimes get animals visiting the hotel. Indeed, some of the sporting guests sit up at night on the veranda in a wicker chair, with a gun, to see what arrives. A pig, a large snake, once a tiger … though I believe it was only a small tiger.”
“That sounds like fun. I might sit up myself a night or two.”
“I shall lend you the wicker chair and the gun.”
I stopped, put a hand on his arm. “But, Arshak, though I’m sure it bothers some of your more nervous guests, it is hardly the sort of thing that Mr Holmes can help you with!”
“And did I say it was? I said I should like to see him at the ‘Raffles’, and so I should, for it will cheer him up. And I said we had a slight problem, and so we have. If he chose to infer some connection between two unrelated statements of fact, that is hardly my fault.”
I laughed. “You should have been a diplomat.”
“And what do you think the owner, or manager, of a large hotel is, then?”
* * *
One of the many difficulties the writer must face is that of what to omit. The sea voyage from England to Singapore would probably furnish material for a dozen books of travel, adventure and romance – and for all I know, it has done so. But for all the relevance it has to my present tale, it was of no greater significance than a second-class return from Baker Street to Uxbridge in the rush hour; and I shall pass over it in these few paragraphs accordingly.
There were, for me at least, only two points of interest connected with the voyage. The first was that Holmes, to my immense relief, began at last to come out from beneath the dark cloud which had hung over him. A day or so after we had left England, he emerged from his cabin and began to take an interest in our fellow passengers. Too much of an interest for comfort, as far as some of them would have been concerned, had they known that they were under his keen eye, for he soon started to mutter things like, ‘The Russian count over there is actually a card-sharper from Lancashire’, or ‘That lady is most definitely not the wife of the man with whom she is travelling’. He would throw out these snippets of information in the most casual way, then give a sidelong glance at his listeners, inviting queries and praise for all the world like some debutante inviting compliments and proposals of marriage. I myself was hardened to this behaviour, and would have left him to stew in his own juice; but to Arshak this was all very new and very exciting, and he played up to Holmes magnificently, with ‘But how … ?’ and ‘Why … ?’ and ‘Marvellous!’ and the like. So all in all, Holmes was very soon pretty much his old self.
Which, of course, brings me to the second significant point. As Holmes’ old powers of observation and deduction returned to the full – to say nothing of his acid wit – I began to fear more and more how he would react when he realized the deception, uncovered the truth, knew the trick that Arshak and I were playing on him. I was sure that Holmes would either turn round and get the first boat back to England, or sink back into that despondency from which he had just emerged.
The day before we were due to dock in Singapore, I took Arshak aside and told him of my concerns. He listened carefully, then waved my fears aside, saying, “But it is too late, my friend, we are almost there. What, realistically, can Mr Holmes do now, be he ever so angry with us?”
“Well …”
“At the very worst, he will return home, and will thus have another restful sea voyage. Why, you have remarked yourself upon how much better he has been these past few days.”
“Well, that’s true, I suppose,” I said doubtfully.
“And if Mr Holmes is the man I think him to be, he will laugh heartily at the whole thing, and settle down for a few weeks rest at the Raffles Hotel. And never fear, we shall look after him … and you.”
We duly arrived, and docked. As we set off ashore, Arshak paused at the top of the gangplank, pointed, and told me, “There is my brother, Tigran. He has evidently come to welcome me home, and I know that he will be delighted to have two such distinguished guests.”
I looked, to get my first glimpse of Tigran Sarkies, manager of the fabled Raffles Hotel. He was a couple of years older than Arshak, and a little thinner, his clean-shaven face a contrast to Arshak’s luxuriant moustache, but the family resemblance was evident. Tigran was meticulously dressed, and wore a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles – I would later learn that he had something of a reputation as a dandy. Just now, though, there was a worried look on his face, and Arshak too remarked upon this fact.
“H’mm,” said he, “Tigran does not seem quite as pleased to see his brother as one might have hoped. I trust there is nothing amiss at the ‘Raffles’,” he added anxiously.
We reached dry land, passed quickly through the usual formalities, and sought out Tigran Sarkies.
As we approached, he rushed forward and shook Arshak warmly by the hand.
“Never was I more delighted to see you, brother,” he told him.
“I must say, you don’t look it.”
Tigran frowned. “Oh, there is terrible news, dreadful news. But now you are here, I feel much better.”
“Tigran, may I introduce two guests for the ‘Raffles’? This is Doctor John Watson, an old friend of mine …”
“Delighted, delighted,” said Tigran absently. “ … and this is Mr Sherlock Holmes.”
“What! That is to say, not … not Mr Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street, the famous detective?”
“None other,” said Arshak calmly.
“Although I have left Baker Street, and … except for the occasional foray into the criminal underworld … left practice as well,” added Holmes.
Tigran put a hand to his brow. “But … but this is wonderful news. But how on earth did you know, brother Arshak? It is true that I thought to telegraph, to see if I could not contact you on the boat, but I decided against it. And then you must have set off … when? Two weeks ago? Three? How did you know to bring Mr Holmes, so long before it happened?”
“Before what happened?” we all three dutifully chorused. “What are you talking about, brother? What is the matter?” added Arshak.
Tigran removed his spectacles, and polished them carefully on a silk handkerchief. “Why,” said he, “since it only happened yesterday, and the news cannot possibly have reached you, how did you know we should need Mr Holmes’ services? How on earth did you know about the murder?”
Chapter Three: The Background to the Case
Holmes, of course, was in his natural element now. “Murder? Who? When? How?” came out all at once, causing the unfortunate Tigran Sarkies to step back quickly.
Arshak interrupted, “Not at the ‘Raffles’ itself, surely?”
“No, thank Heaven,” replied Tigran, recovering his composure somewhat. “But it involves one of our former residents, Mr Derek Masterton … you know him, Arshak.”
Arshak’s face fell. “Of course. But I trust that he has …”
“No, no.”
“Then how is he concerned?”
“It is his wife’s sister who has been killed … poisoned.”
“Good Lord!” Arshak frowned. “Though I cannot recall that I have ever met Mrs Masterton’s sister in person.”
Tigran shook his head. “I do not think she had been here to Singapore previously, and certainly I had never met her until just the other day. No, she arrived here from London only recently with her husband, a Mr Charles Gerard. It is Mr Gerard who has been arrested for the murder, and I must say that things look very bad
against him.”
“You sum things up admirably,” Holmes added. “But then if the matter is so cut-and-dried, what would you have me do?”
“Well, look into it, make sure that Superintendent Ingham … he is our local police chief, you know … has the right of it,” replied Tigran. “If so, then all well and good, but if not, then we must catch the real murderer. Mrs Masterton is, as you may imagine, quite distraught over her sister’s death, and I would wish to give her at least the consolation of knowing that every effort is being made to avenge her dreadful murder.” He permitted himself a bleak smile. “But I am forgetting myself entirely, thanks to this terrible business. You must forgive me, gentlemen. Come along to the hotel, and we shall make you comfortable.”
Holmes seemed about to demur at this and insist upon starting work at once, but the rest of us pointed out the sense of our getting settled in, disposing of our luggage, getting our bearings in these new surroundings, and what have you, and he reluctantly allowed himself to be persuaded.
From the Tanjong Pagar wharf, where we had disembarked, it is no great distance at all to the Raffles Hotel. We bowled along in Tigran’s smart carriage, and now, for about the first time, the magnitude of the contrast with old England hit me. True, there had been a lengthy sea voyage that had to some extent got us accustomed to the heat; but there had been sea breezes to cool things down slightly. Here, the heat seemed a solid wall, almost a living thing which grabbed you by the throat. And then, too, life at sea had been a calm and leisurely sort of thing, not at all like the hustle and bustle that now assailed our eyes and – more to the point – our ears.
I sat back, fanning my face with my hat, and fairly gawped at the activity around us. The sea and seafront seemed black with vessels of all shapes and sizes. Here were passenger ships tying up at the wharves, there were merchantmen with every cargo imaginable, and so on down to the tiny rowing boats that ferried passengers and goods from great liners moored further out in deep water. As you may imagine, with all this shipping loading or unloading, the land too was not entirely devoid of a certain amount of hustle and bustle. In fact, the carriage was obliged to stop more than once as the way was so crowded with all sorts of vehicles, and all manner of men, representing, as it seemed to me, every race under the blazing sun.
