As she got in the carriage she turned back to me and gave me a peck on the cheek. “We will meet again soon,” she said. “Perhaps I can persuade you to come on a plant-hunting trip with me?”
I do believe I was smiling broadly as the carriage drew away and I went back into the apartment. My goodwill lasted only as long as it took me to climb the stairs. Holmes had rolled up the rug and placed it beside the fireplace. That small act seemed to have tired him out completely. He had gone pale, almost white, his eyes sunk back in deep, grey hollows.
“I did not wish your new lady friend to see what it has taken out of me,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper as I helped him into his chair. “Brandy, please, Watson. Make it a large one.”
I had one for myself at the same time. The liquor seemed to have the desired effect and after five minutes he had some color back to his cheeks, although his eyes betrayed a deeper tiredness that would take him longer to shake.
“Explain it to me again, Holmes, please?” I said. “This business about the Tulpa. And remember, I am only a simple medical practitioner.”
Holmes smiled, but it was a little faint, and I could see that he was drained.
“Forget it for now,” I hastily added. “You need to rest.”
He waved a hand to keep me in my chair. “No. Let us have a smoke and another brandy first. And I’ll see if I can make sense of it for you.”
I poured us a fresh drink, he lit up a cheroot, and thought for a while before continuing.
“As I said, a Tulpa is a thought form, a manifestation of will. Whether it has any real existence outside the minds of those perceiving it is a matter of some debate, but I personally believe a function of sentience is that it spreads, and that spread is what we perceived tonight.”
“Sorry, Holmes. I just can’t bring myself to believe it.”
Holmes laughed softly. “I saw a great many things in the Orient I could not quite bring myself to believe, my good Doctor. As, I suspect, you did yourself. Why don’t you just content yourself with this: your new lady friend is now safe from nocturnal visitors … and the rug is now just a rug. No more, no less.”
No more was said on the matter. In the morning Holmes was almost back to his old self, although to my doctor’s eye he still seemed rather wan and tired.
3
Over the course of the following week I found myself spending more and more time with the delightful Constance, and when she asked if I was free for a weekend trip to Scotland, I was only too happy to oblige her.
Holmes seemed listless and bored, but he was often in that mood between cases, and it was better than suffering another of his periodic bouts of hyperactivity. At least this way Mrs. Hudson might survive my absence in relative peace and quiet.
After that, I had no further thought of Holmes for the whole weekend, which passed all too quickly, but left me feeling even closer to Constance and starting to hope that this might be at least the beginning of a lasting relationship.
What with that, and the finding of a new species of orchid previously unknown in Britain, I had much material for a chat with Holmes over a pipe and a drink by the fire.
I arrived back in Baker Street at dusk on Monday evening. Mrs. Hudson informed me that all had been quiet for most of the weekend, but that Holmes had taken to playing the most raucous racket on his violin. It had got on Mrs. Hudson’s nerves to the point that she had spent much of the preceding weekend visiting friends.
I went up the stairs wondering what kind of mood I would find my friend harboring.
The room was in darkness. I could just make out a silhouetted figure sitting by the fire smoking a pipe.
“I say, old chap,” I said. “Let’s throw some light on the matter, shall we?” I lit a lamp and turned back to the fire … just in time to see the dark shape that sat in Holmes’ chair rise and slink off into the far corner of the room and lose itself among the deeper shadows.
I found Holmes in his bed, running a fever and lost in delirium.
At first I almost suspected that Holmes had relapsed and resorted to narcotics to ease his mood, but it quickly became obvious that my friend was gravely ill. His heart raced in a most uncontrolled manner, and his eyes fluttered, pupils rolling up in the sockets. When I touched his brow, my hand came away sodden with fresh sweat.
I ministered to him as well as I could, having to give him a sedative to ensure that he might at least get some rest, a period of respite from whatever had gripped him. It did indeed seem to calm him after a while. Just as I thought he might be falling into a welcome bout of sleep, he grabbed my hand and spoke, a harsh dry whisper.
“She knows more than she has said. Get the woman. And get the flower.”
At any other time I might have queried that, but Holmes had already fallen back on the bed, and when I checked, he seemed to be fast asleep. It did not take a genius to work out which woman he had meant.
As I stood to back out of the room I heard a familiar sound from the sitting room; the scrape of a bow on violin strings. What wasn’t familiar was the music that followed. The last time I had heard anything like it had been in the sprawling markets in Islamabad—and I had never expected to hear its like here, in the heart of London. It was a dance of sorts, a frantic exhortation to spin and whirl.
And it came from what I knew to be an empty room.
As I walked through the doorway, the music stopped abruptly. I was just in time to see a tall black shadow melt into the darkness in the corner.
Constance did not seem at all surprised to see me when I turned up on her doorstep an hour later. Nor did she show any sign of confusion when I mentioned Holmes’ statement about a flower.
“Come with me,” was all she said.
She led me through to a small atrium at the back of the dwelling, a glasshouse containing a wide variety of shrubs and exotic flowers.
“We must take the Mariphasa flower,” she said, snipping a large white bloom from a tall leafy plant. “And you will need to hear my story. Once you’ve heard it, you will have a decision to make regarding your friend Mr. Holmes. A decision I hope turns out better for you than it did for me.”
That cryptic remark was all she would say until we were in a carriage making our way back to Baker Street. She took my hand and looked into my eyes.
“I fear you may think somewhat less of me after this tale is told,” she said, and launched into her story before I had time to protest.
“You already know of my travels in Tibet,” she began. “But what I haven’t told you, what I have not told anyone, is what happened in the monastery in Lhassa.”
I lit two cheroots and passed one to her. She took it gratefully and had a deep pull on it before continuing.
“I was there for several months, and became great friends with my guide, a monk called Yensan. We travelled all over the foothills of the highest mountains together, and indeed it was he who found the flower we have brought with us … and he who was the original owner of the prayer rug.
“He always insisted that the rug held a great secret. And when we were not out on the hills hunting for plants, he spent many of his waking hours in meditation sitting in front of it. One would struggle to find a more peaceful, relaxed man anywhere.
“That all changed the day we found the Mariphasa.
“I was aware that the hills we were in were the stuff of legend; of a plant that only flowered in moonlight, one that bestowed supernatural powers on anyone who found it and partook of the vapors exuded when the petals were rolled and smoked. Of course, I had heard many legends on my travels, and had never found any with even a grain of truth. That was all about to change.
“We had spent the best part of a day inching up a long gully, and had decided to bivouac at the highest point before descending in the morning. I was putting up the tent when Yensan let out a cry. At first I thought he was in trouble, but it was excitement that had led him to shout out. He had found a specimen of the legendary Mariphasa … it was in flow
er, and had seeds we could collect.
“I was happy just to have found a new species I could bring back to Kew, but for Yensan, the find was to change his life, at least for the short period he had left of it.”
She stopped, tears running down her cheeks. I squeezed her hand gently, and she responded in kind.
“You do not have to continue,” I said softly. “Not if it pains you so much.”
She took another long draw from the cheroot and shook her head. “As I said, this is something you need to hear. Holmes’ life may depend on it.”
She let go of my hand, wiped her tears away, then continued with her story.
“We returned to Lhassa with our find, and Yensan immediately took it on himself to test the legend. I came across him just as he lit some of the rolled-up leaves of the flower and took a long draw of smoke deep into his lungs.
“‘Sit with me,’ he said, and took up a cross-legged position in front of the prayer rug. He offered me a chance to smoke, but I declined, for already I could see that he had trouble focusing his vision, and the color was up in his cheeks. He was under the influence of a powerful narcotic.
“Over the next hour the drug took firm hold of him, so much so that I started to fear for his life. I tugged at his arm. He fought up out of his delirium just long enough to berate me.
“‘I am close,’ he whispered. ‘Whatever happens, do not disturb me again, I beg of you.’
“So I sat there with him, as the drug gripped him ever more tightly. Any conscious will he had remaining was focused on the prayer rug. The end came some two hours later. He gave out a small sigh and started to topple sideways. I moved to help him, and got him upright, but it was too late.
“My friend was dead.”
Constance fell quiet, fresh tears rolling down her face. It seemed the tale was told.
I sat there, holding her hand, trying to understand what relevance this story had to Holmes’ predicament.
“Don’t you see, John?” she said. “Holmes wants to take the drug. He believes it will focus his mind, allow him to fight against the hold this Tulpa, or whatever it is that has come out of the rug, has taken of him. But if he does so, it could just as easily kill him. From what you have told me, he is in no state to make a decision. You must decide what is best for him.”
3
I was no closer to making my mind up either way by the time we reached 221B Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson was nowhere in evidence, and there was no sound from above as we took off our coats in the hallway.
Constance handed me the delicate white flower she had removed from the plant in her glasshouse. “I do not recommend its use,” she said. “But it is not my choice to make.”
“Holmes has something of a tolerance for narcotics,” I said dryly. “But I hope it does not come to that. It may be that a period of rest will have revived him.”
As we reached the top of the stairs, the music started again, the same crazed dance I had heard before. Constance went pale and grabbed my hand.
“I know that tune,” she whispered.
I opened the door with some trepidation as to what we might find. A dark shadow sat in the chair by the fire. It rose as the door opened, and Constance let out a shriek.
“It is he. It is he.”
She let go of my hand, and fled, off and down the stairs, out of the front door before I could stop her. I had half a mind to follow her, and might even have done so had Holmes not chosen that moment to call out my name.
The dark shadow once again faded into the corner as I entered the room, and the music came to an abrupt halt.
“Watson,” Holmes shouted again.
When I went through to his room, I found him trying to get out of bed. I urged him to lie down, but he would have none of it.
“Did you get it?” he asked. “Did you get the flower?”
I debated for a second refusing him, but I had come this far with him; I had to trust him now. I handed him the flower.
He managed a smile. “And the lady?”
“Gone, I’m afraid. Too many memories.”
Holmes nodded as if he understood. He staggered when he tried to stand, and I had to lend him a shoulder for balance as we went through to the main room. As we entered, a tall shadow separated from the corner and moved to sit in the armchair by the fireside.
“It is getting too strong,” Holmes whispered. “I must get it right this time. I must banish it tonight, or I fear it will be the end of me.”
I helped him to the ground where he sat, cross-legged in front of the prayer rug. I glanced at the shadowy figure in the chair. It may have been only my imagination, but it seemed to be taking on solidity even as I watched, the blackness become deeper, pulsing in time with Holmes’ own breathing.
I saw that he was struggling with the petals of the flower, his fingers trembling too much to allow him to roll the leaves. I took them from him and, with an action long familiar from rolling my own cigarettes in the service, twisted the petals firmly into the semblance of a smoke. I passed it back to Holmes, and lit it for him with a taper from the fireside.
“Stay with me, Watson,” he said as he sucked the first of several puffs deep into his lungs. “This could be a long night.”
I was already worrying that I had made the wrong decision. I could only hope that Holmes knew his own capabilities, and that his tolerance for narcotics would help him withstand the effects of the drug enough to finish the task. Although I had acted as a friend might, I felt I had failed him as a doctor, and it weighed heavy on my heart.
It began quietly enough. Holmes started to chant, the same bass drone he had used the last time.
“Om.”
With each successive drone the black shadow in the chair grew firmer, more substantial. Holmes swayed, almost fell, and I had to hold him up.
“This is nonsense, Holmes,” I said. “You’re going to kill yourself.”
“Better that than the alternative,” he whispered, and pushed me away. He went back to chanting.
Softly at first, then ever faster and louder, the violin music started up, coming from everywhere and nowhere, spinning and echoing around the room, threatening to drown out Holmes’ chant.
“Help me,” Holmes shouted. “Chant. Chant, for my life.”
Feeling slightly foolish, I joined Holmes in chanting, feeling the bass drone hum and vibrate in my stomach.
“Louder!” Holmes shouted, and I obliged. The blackness in the chair swelled and thickened.
Holmes’ eyes rolled up in their sockets and he almost tumbled to one side, but he righted himself and with one last effort summoned up a shout that drove every other sound from the room.
“Dhumna Ort!”
Silence fell. The black shadow seemed to flow and shrink, falling into the pattern of the prayer rug until we were left alone again in the light from the fire.
“Burn the rug,” Holmes whispered. “Burn it now.”
It took some doing, but with the aid of the heavy poker and a pair of tongs I was able to hold the material in position until the flames took hold of it.
At the last a black shadow threatened to rise from the smoking remains, but the fire took it and scattered it into scraps that flew away out of sight up the chimney. Holmes and I stayed there, watching, until there was nothing left but ash.
Holmes finally took to his bed as the sun was coming up.
3
He slept for three days straight, but was then up and about with no seeming aftereffects of the narcotic. I knew I would have to keep a close eye on him, for it is in the nature of his addiction that relapse is always a possibility, but he seemed, and still seems, strong enough to resist. For now.
As for Constance, I never saw her again. Three weeks after the events of that night, I had a telegram from Southampton, and three months after that, one from Patagonia. Both expressed her apologies for leaving so abruptly, and her last sentence is one that stays with me still.
I am so sorry. But I helped him di
e once. I could not bear to do it again.
The Yellow Peril
EF
It was not as if I were unused to keeping strange hours; working alongside Holmes made regularity a long forgotten friend. But Holmes stretched my patience when he woke me that December morning long before dawn.
“Get dressed, Watson. And be quick about it. We are needed in Yorkshire.”
And with that he was gone from my room, leaving me to wonder whether I had not, in fact, dreamed his rude wake-up call. He quickly put paid to that fantasy.
“Our train leaves King’s Cross in less than two hours,” he called out from the sitting room. “And I won’t wait for you if you are tardy.”
I managed to get washed, shaved, dressed, and packed in less than half an hour, but Holmes was standing by the door, drumming his fingers impatiently on the frame, when I went through to the main room.
“I suppose there’s no time for a spot of breakfast?” I asked, but he was wearing his overcoat, and had a packed bag at the floor by his feet. I already knew the answer to my question.
Five minutes later we were in a carriage, heading for King’s Cross railway station, and I was still none the wiser about our destination, or even why I had been so rudely dragged out of bed on what was a bitterly cold morning.
Holmes showed no signs of wanting to enlighten me. Despite the early hour, he lit up one of his Russian cheroots. What with that and the rolling of the carriage, I was starting to feel glad of having nothing in my stomach.
It was only as we approached King’s Cross that he took out a telegram and showed it to me. “We have been summoned,” he said, rather sourly.
I understood the reason when I read what was on the paper.
There will be a train for York at King’s Cross at 6:00 a.m. This is a matter of national importance.
Sherlock Holmes: The Quality of Mercy and Other Stories Page 12
