by David Marcum
“Would there be any of that dish still remaining?” Holmes asked the cook.
“There is none remaining,” was the reply, “but the pans in which I cooked the meal and the dishes in which it was served are still unwashed. That would usually be my first task of a morning, but I am sure that you can understand that matters are somewhat in disarray following this morning’s discovery.”
It was evident to me that the man’s manner of speech and command of our language was significantly in advance of that of his compatriot. The same thought had obviously entered Holmes’s mind. “Have you always been a cook, or did you at some time follow some other trade?” he asked, politely.
The Indian smiled, it seemed a little ruefully. “Indeed, no. Before I met Colonel Cardew, I taught English at a university in Calcutta. The story of how I came to be in my present position is a complex one, but let me simply say that Colonel Cardew once saved me from a most unpleasant fate at the hands of some religious fanatics who were opposed to my beliefs. Upon reflection, I sensed that my life up to that point had been wasted, and I therefore resolved to start a new life, dedicating myself to educating at least one Englishman - that is to say, Colonel Cardew - in my beliefs. To do this, it was necessary for me to enter his service.”
“And you succeeded in educating him?” half-smiled Holmes.
“Oh, yes, indeed I did,” came the eager answer. “But there was one matter on which he proved most obstinate, and I could not persuade him to change.” Holmes said nothing, but leaned back in his chair, his eyebrows raised.
“He had removed from one of our temples a most sacred image of one of our gods. This small statue is of great antiquity, and is considered to be most holy by the wise men of my religion. Many times, I entreated with him to return it to its rightful place. Many many times,” he repeated sadly, “but it was to no avail. He continued to possess this image, which I and the other followers of my Way regard as being sacrilege.”
“It is of some value, then?” asked MacDonald, addressing Bannerji for the first time.
“It may be of some value in itself,” replied the other. “Some gold and jewels were used in its manufacture-”
“Aha!” broke in MacDonald.
“Pardon me, sir,” said Bannerji. “The true value of this image is not to be measured in terms of money, but in the sanctity and the veneration with which it is regarded. Furthermore, there is a legend attached to this image. That is to say, that if it is removed from the temple where it is meant to be, he who removes it will suffer a painful and lengthy death. The revenge of the gods may not come quickly, but it will come. It will come,” he pronounced with an air of finality.
“Cardew removed this statue from a temple, then?” asked Holmes. “How did he come to do that?”
“It was at the time that he saved my life,” came the answer. “I had fled from my pursuers, who seemed intent on killing me, with my only crime being that I was, in their eyes, a believer in false gods. I fled into my temple, assuming that they would not dare to follow me in there, but I was sadly mistaken. The Colonel, though he wore but the uniform of a Major at that time, saw the chase, and followed my attackers, arriving as they were about to beat my brains out with a cudgel, whereupon he drew his pistol, and drove them away from me. I perceived that he was about to shoot them then and there, and I begged him not to spill blood within the holy precincts of my temple, whereupon he forced them outside, and shot them through the head, one after the other, in full view of the crowds in the street.
“As you may imagine, I was astounded that an Englishman would do such a thing on my behalf, and it was then that I made my vow to change my ways. However, on returning to my temple, the Colonel’s eyes lit upon the image I have described to you, and before I could utter a word, he had seized it and placed it in the knapsack that he was wearing. I was thunderstruck, and unable to protest. There also may be a part of me that believed that he deserved to retain the image as some sort of reward for saving my life.
“But before I had fully realised what had occurred, he had disappeared. I rushed into the street, thinking that it would be easy to discern the Englishman in the crowd, but to my astonishment, I could not find him. I returned to my temple, and as I gazed at the empty spot where the image had stood, I wept for the sacrilege that had been committed.
“Despite my anguish at the lack of respect that he had shown to my religion, this Englishman had saved my life. I prayed earnestly that I should seek him out, and repay the man who had saved my life, by serving him, and working to convert him to the path of truth.
“It took very many months of diligent enquiries before I was able to establish the identity of my saviour, by which time he had left Calcutta. I traced him then to Lahore, but by the time my enquiries were complete, he had returned to England. I was able to ascertain that he had been promoted since the time when I had seen him, and held the rank of Colonel when he left India.
“I thereupon determined to follow him over the oceans, to make myself known to him, and to enter his service, and there were several reasons for my doing so.” The man’s face became animated as he lifted up one finger of his left hand. “Firstly, I wished to repay my debt to him.” Another finger was raised. “Secondly, I wished him to understand my religion and to accept the Way of Truth that we follow.”
“And how did he take to that, may I ask?” enquired MacDonald.
“He was not receptive at first,” smiled Bannerji, somewhat ruefully. “However, in the fullness of time, he accepted the truth of my words, and became a believer of our ways. But, sir, you have not heard my third reason.” The third finger was raised. “I wished him, as a result of his acceptance of the Way, to return the image to its rightful owner.”
“And how did he respond to your requests to return the idol?” asked MacDonald.
“Sir, I would respectfully ask you not to refer to the image using that word,” retorted Bannerji quietly, but firmly.
“Very well,” answered a somewhat discomfited MacDonald. “What has become of the image that Cardew removed from the temple, if you prefer?”
“It is in his bedroom, I believe, together with other similar images which he acquired through more regular means. Often and often I attempted to persuade him to return it to its rightful owners, but he was not to be persuaded. And now,” a strange light entered the eyes of the Indian as he pronounced these words, “the god has struck him down. His folly in retaining the image of the god, despite the earnest entreaties of me, a devoted disciple, has caused the wrath of the Destroyer of Worlds to come down upon him.”
“Did you see the image earlier, when you entered the room?” asked MacDonald.
“I did not enter the room, sir,” came the simple answer, calmly spoken.
“Indeed?” asked MacDonald. “You had no curiosity regarding the fate of your master? I find that very hard to believe, Mr. Bannerji.”
“Of what are you accusing me?” protested the Indian.
“I am accusing you of nothing,” said MacDonald. “I merely expressed my surprise that you were incurious regarding your late master.”
“Hardly that, sir. Indeed I was curious, but the tenets of my religion forbid me to gaze upon a dead body unless I thereupon go through a lengthy process of purification, which would involve secluding myself for seven days. Since I was aware that the police might well wish to question me, as you are doing now, I felt it was better if I remained uncontaminated by the sight of a body.”
“Very praiseworthy, Mr. Bannerji,” commented Holmes drily. “For now, as I mentioned earlier, I would be obliged if you could keep the dishes and pans from last night’s meal unwashed for future examination.”
“It shall be done,” answered the other. “Do you have any more questions for me?”
“At present, no,” Holmes told him. “Gentlemen?” he enquired of MacDonald and Jowett,
who both shook their heads.
“You are free to leave, Mr. Bannerji,” Jowett said. “Do not leave the house, and send Mrs. Bryant to us.”
“A cool customer,” remarked Holmes, when the door had shut behind him. “The face seems strangely familiar, but I am unable to place it at present. There is more to this man than he has told us, I am convinced.”
“Do you believe his story?” I asked.
“Which one? The tale of his rescue from death at the hands of his religious enemies? That of the mysterious stolen idol? His sudden obsession with finding his benefactor? Or his transformation from a university professor to humble servitude overseas in the household of a stranger to his land? Or his aversion to viewing a body?”
“Fanciful twaddle, the lot of it, if you ask me,” said Jowett. “Why have you asked for last night’s dishes, Mr. Holmes?”
“I believe that the meal may have contained something other than the usual spices,” Holmes replied, and would say no more on the subject, despite further questioning from the police officers.
“It does seem to me, though,” I remarked, “that nothing short of a supernatural agency could be responsible for the death of Cardew, since the door was locked on the inside and no sound was heard, even following what must have been an excruciating death.”
MacDonald shook his head. “I dinna like what you say one whit, Doctor, but I fear we have the Devil himself at work here, in the shape of one of these heathen demons masquerading as gods.” I wish that print could reproduce the fine rolled Scots “r” that gave full force to the word “masquerading”.
Holmes smiled. “The Devil, if it is indeed he who is at work here, always acts through human agents, in my experience. I do not anticipate any difference in his modus operandi in this case.”
“Whisht, man! Dinna speak of the Devil in that fashion,” said MacDonald in a fearful tone of voice.
At this point, Mrs. Bryant made her entrance. A woman with whom it would be foolish to argue, I told myself, as she took her seat facing us without asking permission, a determined expression upon her face.
Her account of the events and corroborated for the most part what we had been told earlier by Jowett. She confirmed that she had been at the scene of the death from the time that the door was broken down and the body was discovered, to the time when Jowett had called, and that Bannerji had not entered the room.
“And it was Singh who went in first?” asked Holmes.
“That it was, sir. Him having being a soldier and all, he would have been used to sights like that, I would have thought, but he went as pale as any of his kind can go pale when he saw the master lying there in his blood, all cut up like he was.”
“And Colonel Cardew was dead at that time?”
“Lord bless us, sir, how would I know that? I leave that sort of thing to the doctors and them that know about such matters.”
“But were you not somewhat overcome? You didn’t feel faint or anything like that?”
“Well, sir, it was a shock, I confess. But my late husband, Norman Bryant that was, he was a butcher, and I kind of got used to that sort of thing, I suppose. In any event, I’m not the fainting type, though there was one time twenty years ago-”
“We are only concerned with the events of this morning,” Jowett reminded her sharply.
“Did you notice anything missing from the room?” asked Holmes.
“No, sir. I went in there, but it was the first time I’d ever been in that room. Usually it was that Singh who looked after the master, and I stayed well out of that place. Gave me a turn, it did, though, to see all of them heathen idols and pictures up there. I knew the master was a bit strange-like in his beliefs since that Bannerji arrived here, and live and let live is what I always say, but even so...” Her voice trailed off.
“You are certain that no-one other than Singh and yourself entered the room?”
“I am sure of it, sir. If you give me a good Christian Bible, I’ll take my oath on it, if you like.”
“That will hardly be necessary,” smiled Holmes. “Would you say that Colonel Cardew was a kind master?” Holmes asked her.
She considered for a minute. “To be honest, sir, no I wouldn’t say that. He was hard on them two darkies, locking them up each night the way he did. Not that I’d trust them myself, you understand, but I wouldn’t shut them in like that. He paid my wages on time and without complaining, but I wouldn’t say he was a friendly soul.”
“And did he have friends who visited him?”
“Nary a one, sir. In the years I’ve worked for him, there has been no place set at the table for any but the master, and no visitor has ever spent the night here, to the best of my knowledge.”
“Did he receive many letters or telegrams?” Holmes asked.
“It wasn’t my job to collect the post and deliver it to him, but from what I could see, he hardly ever received any letters or messages. He kept himself very much to himself.”
“Well, what do you make of it, Mr. Holmes?” MacDonald asked when the housekeeper had left us.
“Much depends,” answered Holmes, “on the condition of last night’s curry.”
MacDonald laughed outright. “I dare say you may be correct there, but I am dashed if I can see how. Mr. Holmes,” he explained to the smiling Jowett, “often comes up with these fancies, which appear strange and improbable at first sight, but he has this uncanny way of proving to be right in the end.”
“There is nothing uncanny about it, Inspector,” Holmes remarked. “It is merely a matter of intelligent observation and then putting two and two together to make four. A simple process.”
“Ah, Mr. Holmes, you are too modest in your own self-judgement. False modesty is as much of a sin as pride, as we learned in the kirk when I was younger.”
“All very interesting,” commented Jowett, “but what do you gentlemen wish to do next?”
“We should view the body, and the scene where it was discovered.”
We made our way to the door of the death chamber, which had been forced open, as was evident by the splintered wood of the frame and the state of the lock.
Holmes said nothing, but raised his eyebrows as he bent to examine the lock with his ever-present lens for the space of a minute, after which he stood upright, with a thin smile on his lips.
We then entered the room, which presented a gloomy aspect, the curtains being drawn shut against the light. The almost naked body of an elderly man lay face downwards on the blood-stained sheets that covered the bed. The corpse was painfully thin, almost in a state of emaciation, and the skin of the back was covered with cuts, which filled with congealed blood, and which seemed to cover the whole body, but were concentrated around the torso.
“The curtains were drawn shut like this?” Holmes asked Jowett, pointing to the window.
“Yes, sir. We haven’t touched anything in that sort of line,” came the reply.
With a quick gesture, Holmes twitched the curtains open, and the wan winter daylight flooded the room as he closely examined first the windowsill and then the lock on the window.
“It is clear that this window has not been opened for some considerable time.”
“With the door locked, that leaves only the chimney as a possible means of entrance for the burglar,” remarked MacDonald.
“And of exit,” Holmes shrugged. “There are no signs of entry or egress through this portal, any more than through the window.” He turned to examine the principal feature of the room - the wretched cadaver of Colonel Cardew, which he gently turned over, exposing the face, set in an expression almost of serenity, in contrast to the lacerations covering the flesh of the body. The sight drew my horrified gaze for a minute or more, until I could tear my eyes away and look around the room, which was furnished conventionally enough, but with almost every surface c
overed with Oriental knick-knacks, such as incense burners and pagan idols, and the walls hung with pictures of the same pagan deities. The one striking exception to the Eastern knick-knacks that filled the room was a service revolver that stood on the small table beside the bed.
“Seems like a right little heathen temple in here, sir,” remarked MacDonald, with more than a touch of Scotch Presbyterian censure in his voice.
“From what we understand from Bannerji, and what Mrs. Blyth told us earlier, sir, that’s not too far off the mark,” Jowett answered.
On looking closer at these objets, my time in India helped me to recognise, if not by name, some of the idols that decorated the room, some with elephant heads or heads of other animals, and featuring multiple arms and heads. Holmes was busy examining the revolver, which he picked up and smelled, before flicking open the cylinder and moving on to the Eastern images. He stopped short at a console table which was bare of any ornament.
“Nothing has been moved, you say?” he asked Jowett.
“That is correct, sir,” answered the police agent.
Holmes said nothing in reply, but bent to the surface of the table and examined it with his lens, finally standing straight with a grunt of satisfaction before dropping to his hands and knees and peering under the bed. “Aha! What is this?” he exclaimed, reaching under the bed and producing an extraordinary object, which he held delicately by the extreme tip.
It was a whip, similar to a cat o’ nine tails, with knotted lashes. I shuddered as I beheld it brandished in Holmes’s hand. On closer examination, I noted that the lashes were encrusted with a dark substance, and I withdrew with disgust.
“Yes, Watson,” said Holmes calmly. “It does indeed appear to be dried blood.”
“Surely he did not use that monstrous device on his servants?” I whispered in horror.
Holmes said nothing, but merely pointed to the lacerated body of Cardew that lay on the bed.
