by David Marcum
The major blinked at Holmes. “That is so.”
“You wear a most interesting tiepin. Jade of course, and depicting a letter of the Burmese alphabet.”
Major Coulteney fingered the jewel. “The letter ‘N’.”
Holmes bowed farewell, and the major turned to me with a quizzical look, but I could offer no gloss on Holmes’s questions. I saw him to out to his cab.
“Oh, dear,” I said as I returned to the sitting room. “I thought we were done with ghosts and ghouls. We are approaching the end of a rational century.” I frowned at Holmes. “Was it necessary to be quite so insufferable? I know we disagree on the Burma question, and you are one of your moods, but-”
“What do you make of Major Coulteney?” Holmes asked, stretching up to the mantel and scrabbling for his pipe.
I filled my own morning pipe as I considered. “He told his tale in a straightforward manner, admitting his poor relationship with his papa. That accords with his long spell of duty abroad. I am sure he would have been allowed home leave earlier, had he applied.”
“His clothes have obviously been in storage for some time. His jacket was full around the shoulders: He has lost some weight. And there was the smell.”
I frowned.
“Mothballs.”
“Is that how you knew that he had been away for eight years?” I asked.
“No, no, surely you noticed his cravat? That lamentable style of bright paisley came into fashion for a mercifully brief period about nine years ago. No valet who knows his business would let his master out in public wearing it now. The rage is all for plain, dark hues. The major’s cravat also clashed violently with his jade tiepin. I imagine his soldier servant knows only red, white, and blue.”
“Major Coulteney talked of the loss of his mother’s maid as having more effect on her than her husband’s death!” I said.
“To lose a husband is unfortunate; to lose a femme de chambre may be a far more climacteric event for a woman of mature years, dependent on Beatrice or Sofia as the only person who understands her hair, and perhaps as a confidant. If the maid dies (the Queen is notoriously wearing on hers, and they expire with inevitable frequency) that is inconvenient. If the girl is so disloyal as to give notice and obtain employment in another house, taking her mistress’s secrets with her - that is a catastrophe.”
“You sound like one of those clever, epigrammatic writers, Holmes.”
“Thank you.”
“I intended the comparison as a criticism.” I stood. “I’ll inform Mrs. Hudson that we may be late for dinner.”
“Liver and bacon,” Holmes replied, and I stiffened.
“Pagani’s?” I suggested sotto voce, glancing towards the closed sitting-room door, “although our funds are much depleted after the holiday season. Or the public house opposite the station does veal pie, boiled potato, and a pudding at eightpence farthing.”
Holmes smiled a reptilian smile.
Our cab stopped outside an imposing mansion in Curzon Street with a black front door, reached by a flight of gleaming stone steps and adorned with a silver lion’s head doorknocker. The door opened wide as I paid the cabby, revealing an upper servant dressed in a pale blue robe, bound with a gold sash, and wearing a strange hat, something between a military forage cap and a fez, surmounted by a huge deep-yellow blossom - an orchid. He bowed deeply, introduced himself as the butler, and welcomed Holmes and me by name in unaccented English as footmen took our coats, hats, and canes.
The butler led us across a marble-floored hall from which a magnificent double staircase led to upper floors and into a drawing room in which a very welcome fire blazed. We were offered cigars and cigarettes before he left us to inform his master of our arrival, trailing a faint scent of patchouli.
I warmed my coattails at the fire and gave Holmes a reproachful look. “We must do something about our chimney-”
“Ming Chenghua,” Holmes said, lifting a blue-and-white Chinese vase from the mantel. “A very fine example.”
Major Coulteney strode in, beaming, with the butler behind him. “I can’t thank you gentlemen enough for coming. I am at my wits’ end.” He offered drinks, which the oddly-dressed butler dispensed with impeccable grace, leaving Holmes and me settled in chairs in front of the fire.
“I see you noticed the china,” Major Coulteney continued as the door closed behind the servant. “In his later years, my father was an invalid, hardly going out except occasionally to his club to dine. He amused himself with his china collection, and that is part of the problem. It is my understanding that the collection includes pieces of great antiquity and value. The vase on the mantel is one, according to Cheng.”
“Cheng is an expert in chinaware? A dealer?” Holmes asked.
“Cheng is our butler.”
Holmes smiled and rubbed his hands together. “How very interesting.” He turned to me. “You will have noticed Cheng’s slightly slanted eyes, the mark of the Oriental.”
“He has strong, forward projecting zygomatic arches and relatively large epicanthic folds,” I answered, “but his nasal bridge is not particularly low-rooted.” I sipped my whisky, not without a certain inner satisfaction, as Holmes and the major digested my remarks.
“Cheng was a boy of mixed parentage,” Major Coulteney continued, “who ran from an orphanage and sneaked aboard my father’s ship when it was docked in Kowloon, China, oh, forty or more years ago. The sailors hid him from the authorities and he became a kind of ship’s mascot. Father took the boy under his wing and put him in the care of the ship’s schoolmaster with the midshipmen and cadets. He evidently thrived. Father often commented that, had he been able to regularise Cheng’ position in the Navy, he would have risen through the ranks and retired as an admiral.”
The major pursed his lips. “As it was, Cheng sailed with my father for a number of years, first as his cabin boy, then as confidential secretary. When the admiral retired, he took over the running of this London house and our country estate. I returned home last month, and I found that he had acquired certain airs above his station, as servants with indulgent masters are wont to do over time.” Major Coulteney fingered his paisley cravat. “Even having the presumption to proffer unwelcome advice on matters of gentlemanly attire.”
I stifled a smile. “Is Cheng connected with your problem?”
“Yes. Well, no, not exactly. With certain exceptions, Cheng is an admirable butler. The house runs like clockwork. My mother’s friends, who spend much of their time exchanging anecdotes on the iniquity of servants, look upon him as the very model of perfection, despite his sartorial proclivities (which my father and mother found charming) and his pretentions.”
Major Coulteney sniffed. “As my father’s health declined, he relied more and more on Cheng to help him prepare a catalogue of the china collection that was his obsession. When his sight began to fade, Cheng read to him from the large collection of reference books my father had amassed, thus acquiring a considerable knowledge of Chinese pottery. He was allowed to bid for my father at auctions.”
“Close to, your tiepin is very fine,” Holmes remarked. The major and I frowned at him in confusion.
“Thank you.” Major Coulteney fingered the gleaming jewel at his neck. “I was with my regiment in India for a few months when the British Resident at Mandalay requested an augmentation to his military guard and I transferred there. The jewel was a gift from a friend.”
“Mandalay!” I exclaimed. “A city of golden temples and yellow-clad monks-”
“Gamboge-clad,” Holmes corrected.
I took an irritated gulp of my whisky as the major continued his story.
“On my return home after my father’s death, I proposed to my mother that we sell the china and give Cheng his notice, but she is convinced that Cheng is indispensable. My mother is somewhat delicate, and I
fear that any disturbance in her domestic arrangements (coming so soon after the replacement of her femme de chambre) would have a profound effect on her well-being.”
“And her husband’s death,” I suggested.
“Yes, that too, of course. The hurt of my father’s recent death is upon her, and she will suffer no change whatever in the house. And that brings us to the problem.” Major Coulteney stood. “Perhaps you gentlemen would follow me?”
The major led us outside into the hall, where Cheng waited with a footman, and ushered us past the grand staircase and into a room opposite.
“I believe I know your butler from somewhere,” I murmured as we entered a dim reception room. “Could I have seen his image in the papers?”
Major Coulteney answered me with a significant look, which I interpreted as a request not to pursue that topic.
We found ourselves in a charming, bow-windowed room with a row of three crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and numerous crystal and gold wall sconces, but lit only by the flickering flames of the fire in the grate. Glass-fronted cabinets alternated with mirrors along the walls. Cheng manipulated a device by the door and the gloom of winter late-afternoon was dispersed by a blaze of light that revealed rows of Chinese blue-and-white porcelain on glass shelves in the cabinets, gleaming in the bright lights, and more tall vases on the mantel shelf on either side of a glittering jade ornament.
“My father had electric lights installed as his sight began to fade, but our parlour maids refuse to enter this room even in daylight. Luckily, another maid-” Major Coulteney frowned and turned to Cheng.
“Maggie, sir.”
“Just so, Maggie is unperturbed by the phenomenon.”
“Our skivvy is Irish, but entirely pragmatical,” Cheng explained. He offered a drinks tray, but Holmes ignored him, loped across the room to the fireplace, and snatched a blue-and-white vase from the mantel.
“Do you mind if my colleague examines the china a little more closely?” I asked superfluously as Holmes held the vase to an electric wall sconce, muttering to himself. He turned to Major Coulteney. “This is a magnificent example of Ming Xuande from the fifteenth century - pity you do not have the pair.”
“Actually, we do.” Major Coulteney said in a light tone. He nodded to Cheng, who went through a green-baize-covered side-door and returned with an elderly maid in a grey uniform holding a brush and pan. She grinned a gap-toothed grin at us and displayed the contents of the pan, a heap of broken blue-and-white china. She mimed a sort-of sliding wiggle and a crash to the floor, and grinned again. I stifled a chuckle, and Holmes grabbed the dustpan from her and sifted through the shards.
“A hundred guineas the pair,” the major said.
“And with one vase gone, the balance of the room is even more disturbed,” said Cheng.
I frowned. “Balance?”
“Qi,” said Holmes. “Cheng is referring to the feng shui of the room: Its orientation according to the principles of celestial harmony.”
Cheng bowed. “Precisely, sir. The room tilts to the East, and naturally, things slide with it.”
“Thank you, Cheng,” Major Coulteney said coldly.
The butler bowed again and led the other servants from the room. Major Coulteney ushered Holmes and me to over-stuffed sofas. Holmes sat with the dustpan on his knees, stirring the shards.
“Our housekeeper, Mrs. Mason, swears that she and the maids have seen vases and even the candlesticks on the mantel jerk and dance on many occasions recently.” Major Coulteney took a gulp of whisky and turned to me, his fierce eyes belying his previous equanimity. “You see what I am beset with, Doctor? A kitchen skivvy is dusting the parlour, with a king’s ransom in blue-and-white china on display that I cannot dispose of. What next? The boot boy answering the door to visitors and Cook polishing the silver?”
“Heaven forfend,” I said sympathetically.
“The phenomenon manifests itself only in this room?” Holmes asked.
“It does.”
“In which direction do the objects dance?”
“East to west,” the major answered, “towards the windows.” He stood and took a palm-sized jade ornament from the collection of objets d’art on the mantel. “According to Cheng, this green dragon guards the east, and he is the key to the problem.”
Holmes took the dragon and peered at through his magnifying glass. “Carved from a single piece of jadeite of the very finest quality. He is a new addition to the collection? I see no other jade items.”
“My father collected only porcelain. I bought the dragon in the Burmese capital, brought it home, and placed it on the mantel a fortnight or so ago. The manifestation began the following day.”
Holmes leapt up, crossed to the windows, and scanned the frames. “No signs of forced entry.” He turned to Major Coulteney. “You saw this latest incident?”
“I did. As I have said, I am no spiritualist, but what I saw was uncanny. The vase wobbled along the shelf past the candlestick and crashed to the floor.”
“Cheng was present?”
“He came instantly at my call.” The major frowned. “You have a theory, Mr. Holmes? A solution to the problem?”
Holmes tapped his finger to his lip as he considered, then he shrugged. “The affair may be perfectly simple, or it may be exquisitely convoluted.”
“I am afraid my companion is a connoisseur of convolution,” I admitted.
“As for solutions,” Holmes said with a smile, “I am sure Cheng could find you a feng shui master who would re-orient the room. He might only require that the dragon be placed elsewhere, and tranquillity may be re-established.”
Major Coulteney stiffened. “I hardly think that would suit, Mr. Holmes. It is a question of authority, of who is master and who is man. With my father passed on, I am the head of this household.” He fingered the jade ornament at his throat. “I intend to marry shortly, and I have no intention of bringing my wife into a household in which she might feel the slightest awkwardness with the staff.” The major’s tone hardened further. “Cheng made his objection to my placing the jade dragon on the mantel abundantly clear, but I will not allow my authority to be gainsaid by him or any shaman or witch doctor he may set against me.”
Major Coulteney looked from Holmes to me, breathing heavily, his expression betraying his embarrassment as he continued. “I am sorry, gentlemen, I spoke a little intemperately. The thing is, my mother is due to return from Lourdes tomorrow, and it is imperative that this matter be resolved before then.” He blinked at Holmes. “I know it is an awful imposition, but would you gentlemen be prepared to stay a little longer and give the phenomenon a chance to expose itself? I can offer you a fair dinner, a curry, if that suits? Cook has mastered the art of the real Madras curry. Cheng obtains the proper ingredients from a ships’ chandler in Limehouse.”
Holmes took out his watch and regarded it with a doubtful expression.
“We did not think to bring evening clothes,” I said.
“We are not fashionable,” the major answered. “My father kept naval hours and dined at three in his afternoon attire. I follow Army ways and dine at seven in my undress uniform or even a frock coat.”
Holmes raised his eyebrows at me, and, thinking of the liver and bacon that awaited us at home, I instantly nodded agreement. “Very well, Major. Doctor Watson and I are at your disposal,” Holmes answered.
We were assigned a large and well-appointed bedroom in which to perform our ablutions, with a lavatory at the end of the hall. A footman saw to our needs in the matter of towels, soap, and hot water with admirable efficiency.
“Mr. Cheng’s rooms are on the top floor, I imagine?” Holmes asked him.
“Yes, sir. First on the left.”
Dinner was excellent, a choice of a joint of beef or the chicken curry Major Coulteney
had promised. I accepted both with a little urging from our host. The wines too were of the very best quality. Cheng stood behind his new master making sure we were well served. He wore a dark blue, sari-like garment, and his cap was adorned with a matching, deep blue orchid.
Although I had served in Afghanistan and India, I knew very little of farther east, and I requested Major Coulteney to give me a succinct account of the recent war with the Burmese, which he did, sketching the line of the Irrawaddy in wine on the table after the cloth was drawn and positioning condiment dispensers and fruit from the bowl to represent our gunboats and the Burmese forts.
He explained that, after King Thibaw had exhibited disdain for our mercantile interests in Burma and threatened British property, Naval gunboats besieged his capital, Ava. Seeing the strength of the forces arrayed against him, the king had soon surrendered. The war was over within a fortnight.
“The palace was looted,” Major Coulteney said with a slight moue of distaste. “Jewels, silks, china, and gold were shipped to Britain and presented to the royal family and other notables. A Prize Committee was instituted at Mandalay to auction off the lesser items, mostly to Army and Navy officers and civil servants. Objects of high religious importance, including eleven gold idols of Lord Buddha, were shipped to Calcutta to be distributed to museums.”
“Is that where you acquired your jade dragon?” I asked.
The major shifted in his seat in obvious discomfort. “I bought it at an informal auction in King Thibaw’s bedroom in Ava. One of my sepoys had liberated it from a heathen shrine. I got him to show me the place he’d found it - a most magnificent altar with a scroll in Chinese script hanging beside it. The altar itself was jade-and-gold encrusted, depicting dragons in flight, and of such a weight that a Naval party with a hoist was required to remove it.”
“The Jade Dragon Disturbs the Tranquillity of the Morning,” Cheng said from his place behind the major.
“It is a fine piece,” said Holmes.
