Sherlock Holmes in the Great Detective on the Roof of the World

by Thomas Kent Miller

  I mention these particulars only so that whoever may come into possession of this journal will understand that there is a long preface, already published, which may be of some interest or use insofar as it may put into some kind of perspective the nature of events that brought us to Tibet in the first place.

  But I am wandering; I have a tale to tell and all of the preceding is tangential at best, only casting light on how it was we were in the chief library of the capital city of Tibet in the year 1891.

  L. V.

  Chapter I

  Sigerson the Norwegian

  Horace and I were again deep in the archives of the library of Lhasa. We had made up our minds that this would be our last visit to those stone catacombs; but we had little hope of finding what we were looking for. For nearly half a year we had virtually bivouacked in the venerable institution, opening countless books, unrolling some few scrolls, scanning line after line and page after page, seeking some clue as to the whereabouts of, or any reference at all to, the volcanic peak above which towered the symbol of Life of the Egyptians—the crux-ansata, [Editor's note: More commonly called an Ankh today] which Ayesha led me to in a dream. Indeed, it was this dream—and a waking vision that Horace and I shared fast on the heels of the dream—that prompted our sudden leave-taking from England. It had been made quite clear to us—by what powers I cannot say—that Ayesha was keeping her oath to come again, and that we would find her in Central Asia. All we need do is go there and seek her.

  As it turned out, five or six years of seeking have succeeded only in determining where she is not and haven't given us a clue as to the location of the Loop of Life, the visionary symbol of which we are certain was given to us as a sign, rather as an X that marks the spot, the spot being, of course, the true and ennobling love which I must seek to find fulfillment, at least in this life, which, despite Ayesha's tales, is the only life of which I know; and I cannot live without this woman. After all, didn't our Lord say, "Seek and ye shall find; knock and the door will open" or words to that effect? Well, if ever there is an award given for seeking, certainly Horace and I should win the prize.

  * * *

  As I was saying, Horace and I were searching for the last time for any possible clue in the books, for none of the lamas or any of the other estimable locals to whom we had spoken had any knowledge or the slightest concept of that which we sought. Fortunately, our backgrounds in language and the long years we have spent trekking about this land and its high terrain have given us sufficient familiarity with the Tibetan language—both spoken and written—so that we were quite able to pick our way through the books and scrolls and such things with confidence. We were, in fact, looking over again some volumes which had seemed promising some months previously, but which had proved barren, at least at that time. Our intent was to take a last look at these works and then depart, that is to say, plunge ahead, or over, the most prodigious mountain country on the planet with the intention of continuing our quest.

  We were intent on this business in a corner of an antechamber, which had evidently been hewn from solid rock and which branched off a main corridor, when there came to us the sound of scuffling not unlike rats in a wall (not likely in this rocky place), then a muffled curse in English, more scuffling, then the unmistakably pungent smell of a waxed Vesta being lit, and finally the totally incongruous yet delightfully familiar aroma of smoking shag. Horace and I became aware of the first scuffling at the same moment and we both looked up from our respective volumes and glanced quizzically at one another.

  At the sound of the English voice, our eyes opened wide together and I mouthed silently, "What the devil!" Then as the succession of extraordinary little events seemed to reach its conclusion, in a hushed voice I said to Horace, "It's been years since we smelled tobacco like that. Heavens! It's like being in an English drawing room again. Who on earth could be smoking the stuff in this place?"

  * * *

  Horace's reaction was to place his finger along his nose, indicating quiet. Frankly I was irritated by this gesture. This seemed to me to be a time for exclamations and such, not the nervous concealment of a scared rabbit. I was about to say as much, when there came a clear voice across the stacks calling out in English.

  "Hallo! I say, is anyone here? That is, are there Europeans here? There are, after all, quite a few Tibetans about." Following this, there came a chuckle.

  Horace put his hand on my arm as I was about to impulsively reply. For a while there was silence, then the voice came again.

  "Well, of course, I can understand your timidity. We are a long way from home, aren't we...? Yet, I can't help but feel somewhat put off. Frankly, I long for a Western face."

  Well, even Horace's customary caution melted under such sentiments, and we both called out.

  "Hallo. Stay still. We'll come to you."

  It must be understood that it was hardly a matter of simply stepping over to the source of the voice. The library was, or is, a virtual maze, and one moved from one place to another only by trial and error. Over the months, Horace and I had learned our way about the place, but still it was not wise to go rushing off in some direction without taking one's bearings, noting landmarks, so to speak, and so forth.

  "Most certainly, my dear fellows," came the voice. "I wouldn't dream of moving. I'll just chatter on till we meet. My, my, it certainly is unexpected to discover in a remote place like this, if not one's countrymen, at least Westerners with whom a man can share a smoke and perhaps some gossip of matters of mutual interest." He kept talking like this for a couple of minutes as Horace and I picked our way through the dusty stacks of long board-covered books. Then, "Hallo, there, you're getting warm...around the next bend then...and there you are!"

  There standing languidly before us, his back against a shelf, was a tall man, somewhat over six feet, with piercing eyes that had a bit of humor about them. Beneath these eyes was a straight, sharp nose and then a full growth of dark beard, much as both Horace and I possess. (Shaving is a civilized custom that one soon learns to do without in a remote and bitter land such as Tibet.)

  "My name is Sigerson," the fellow said, and he put down the book he was holding and held out his hand. "I'm a Norwegian up to no good, I'm afraid."

  Horace and I shook the man's hand, Horace saying, "But your English is so good." But before either Horace or I had a chance to introduce ourselves, Sigerson went on.

  "Oh, that is easy, you know. Much of my adult life has been spent in England. I'm rather a free spirit, flitting between the two countries and points between and beyond as—" he indicated the space around him "—you can see readily enough. But I must know, how did you find the workmanship of the gold work at the market this afternoon? It is most satisfying to know there is, after all, some craftsmanship and pride and such things left in the world, even in this day and age, though one must look for it in Tibet!"

  Horace and I gave one another a questioning glance, then Horace looked up at the man, fixing him hard in the eye.

  "Now, see here, sir! If you saw us there, why didn't you come forward? It seems to me the only proper thing to do, after all."

  Sigerson smiled impishly. "But, my good man, I did not see you there today. In fact, it's been days since I've been to the market. No, no. I saw clearly that the two of you had been at the goldsmith's today from the minute specks of gold dust I see glinting on your fingertips, from that and from the orange mud staining the edges of your boots. That particular mud is comprised of a soil rich in ocher clay, and in my wanderings to date I've noticed it only in the vicinity of the open-air market. That the stains show signs of still being wet indicates that you were there only this afternoon. Quite simple, actually."

  "Impertinence is more like it!" Horace harrumphed. My stepfather, as I do, likes matters straightforward and simple. We both understand "simple," and Sigerson's idea of "simple" was clearly not ours.

  "Now, now, old chap, there is no need to take offense. It's a bit of a hobby of mine to make deduct
ions from the obvious things that few others heed. For instance, it is apparent that having achieved your ends at the goldsmith's shop, you strolled up to Palkhor Street for a nourishing repast of yak cheese and buttered tea."

  At this point, I was aghast. Horace, I could see, was quite as dumbfounded. He inhaled and exhaled a deep breath. "'Impertinence' I said and 'impertinence' I meant, dash it all! What right do you have snooping on us, following us about as though we were a couple of criminals! A fine how-do-you-do this is!" Horace's voice was quite naturally raising. It was my turn to put a restraining hand on his arm. After all, we had only just met the man, and it was certainly too soon to get into a brawl.

  "Perhaps, Horace, Mr. Sigerson would be kind enough to explain."

  "Certainly. I must learn either to keep my little revelations to myself or to broach them in a more subtle fashion. Actually, I can't blame you for your agitation. There are those who say I am somewhat smug, but I honestly can't help myself. It seems to be a part of my natural condition. In any case, responding to your query, in your beards are numerous morsels of yak cheese which indicates what your last meal must have been, and the mule dung covering in spots the previously cited mud on your boots is evidence that from the market you traveled, by what route I'm not entirely clear, to east Lhasa where the mule traffic is centralized by ordinance, and I happen to know of a fine little cheese shop in the vicinity, which happens to be on Palkhor Street."

  "And the buttered tea?" I asked.

  "My good man, who in this country doesn't drink vast amounts of the stuff at every available opportunity?"

  "A point well taken. Horace, I believe we both owe Mr. Sigerson an apology. He certainly seems on the up and up."

  Horace colored and held out his hand. "I suppose so. But this sort of legerdemain or mental prestidigitation or whatever you may call it will get you in trouble some day, Sigerson, mark my words, unless you learn to curb yourself. But I'm afraid Leo and myself have been in error ourselves by not introducing ourselves. I am—"

  "No, no. Let me guess. You are the indomitable Ludwig Horace Holly and this is Leo Vincey."

  "Why man," I said, grasping the man's hand again, "did you read that from the mud and dung?"

  "Not at all. Leo Vincey and Horace Holly hot on the trail of She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed, no doubt."

  There was no end to the shocks that this Sigerson presented. As a man, Horace and I stepped back in surprise, our jaws dropping. Though we may have at times asked directions to certain geological or architectural landmarks which we had reason to believe marked our goal, never during our travels in Asia had we mentioned what that ultimate goal was.

  "Gentlemen, don't be so surprised," Sigerson interjected. "In this year 1891, I would venture to guess that half of Europe and much of America besides know exactly who you are and have reveled and despaired vicariously with you on your adventure into Central Africa."

  Then I understood. "So the man to whom Horace sent his account of those days has seen that it was published."

  "Yes, and to worldwide acclaim."

  "My word," Horace said.

  "And, I'm sure, insomuch as your agent is by all indications a man of honor, I would think that he has set aside some percentage of the royalties for the event of your return. Quite a few quid, I would venture."

  Horace was about to interject, when Sigerson continued, "No, no, my good man, I know what you are about to say: that you had specified to the man that he could do with the manuscript as he pleased and that he could keep whatever monies might be derived from that decision. True enough, for that is also common knowledge, yet as I said, I feel certain your agent, who has surely become a rich man acting on your behalf, has made arrangements so that the author of the book can enjoy some of those fruits as well."

  I chose this moment to speak my thoughts. "Mr. Sigerson, this is news indeed, though I must say it is a bit disconcerting to know that half the world is privy to one's most intimate desires." Here I looked at Horace. "Horace, when I agreed to let you send your manuscript to that agent, I never thought that our quest would be held up to public inspection to be talked of and bantered about as though we were the subjects of some tasteless governmental scandal."

  "Nor I, Leo. I am decimated to hear this."

  "My man!" exclaimed Sigerson. "I am telling you that you are a wealthy man now. You need only to return to Europe to claim your own."

  "Ah, but there are catches here," Horace said. "I am, and I'm sure I can speak for Leo as well—("Here, here!" I said)—quite content being where I am doing what I'm doing. Neither the money nor the suggestion to return home interest me one jot."

  "Please," Sigerson said, "I did not intend to upset either of you. These matters of which I spoke are, as I said, common knowledge to all except the principals involved, and I ought to have been more sensitive than to have callously brandished this knowledge at your expense. I ask your forgiveness. But, also, I must ask, how fruitful has the sequel been?"

  "Fruitless," I answered, hardly able to stifle a groan, whereupon I described the nature of the dream that sent us to Asia and how to this date we had succeeded not one whit.

  "We had hoped to find here in Lhasa some clue to the location of the looped pillar. We have been here for six months to no avail. It was our intention to set out tomorrow to the northeast. These last six years have been utterly futile except to chalk off a bit of territory."

  "Excuse me, gentlemen, but I can't help but wonder that, despite the nature of your previous adventures, you would spend your lives tramping about the Tibetan wilderness on the strength of a dream."

  "But, sir, there was more!" I ejaculated. "Following my dream, there occurred a most spectacular display in the heavens that affirmed the dream without question. It was the moment of dawn and the English sky was clouded over. But as we looked, the clouds broke apart and formed the definite shape of a Loop of Life at the rim of a fiery crater, the fire being the sun breaking between the clouds, and as it broke a sharp ray of crimson light shot through the hole in the loop. I assure you the phenomenon was quite spectacular, though in a moment it was gone. It is on the combined strength of the dream and the vision—which obviously was more than a vision since it entailed somehow rearranging the fabric of the very heavens—that we have based our quest, and it is this memory which girds us daily."

  "Indeed," Sigerson said, "it seems odd that a mere coincidence would provide the impetus for a quest that has already lasted five or six years and Lord knows how much longer, not to mention the privations and tribulations."

  "My good man," I said, "you cannot know the power that that 'mere coincidence' had, nor the influence it had on our very souls. Believe me, sir, that was no mere coincidence...no, not by any means. If anything, I for one consider it the very Grace of God."

  "But sir," Horace said after a pause in our conversation, "you have the advantage knowing all there is to know about us, but we know nothing of you."

  "Oh, that is easily rectified. I'm a world traveler, a bit of a naturalist, and have received a special commission from the combined crowns of Scandinavia to explore the nature of the Yeti, or the so-called Abominable Snowman, as the press back home is wont to call the beast. Perchance...have you had experiences or heard tales in your travels that I might catalogue?"

  "No, sir, we have not," answered Horace.

  "Pity."

  At this moment, we were interrupted by the sudden appearance of the lama whose responsibility it was to oversee the library. He was grimacing and seemed quite shaken.

  "Gentlemen," he said in his native Tibetan, "I smell smoke. No, no. That is not allowed. No smoking in the library. This is strictly forbidden. Please leave; it is time to go now. Go, go."

  Sigerson held up the pipe, which he had been sucking all through our conversation, and used it to gesture to the nearest of the many yak-butter lamps sputtering and smoking along the walls, and which Tibetans universally use to brighten the dark.

  "I don't understand," he said in f
luent Tibetan, "How could a little smoke from my pipe be of concern when the entire library is lit by flaming lamps under far less control than—"

  At this point, the lama interrupted Sigerson with a great sweep of his yellow robes.

  "Blasphemy! Oh, we will rue the day we ever allowed white men into our midst. But that is not the point. I am head lama of this library and I say that you must go. Now go! Do not ask questions. Go! Do not interrupt. Go!"

  Sigerson looked plaintively at his pipe, which had now gone out. "I'm terribly sorry," he said. "This is my error entirely. I was so involved in my research that the pipe came out by reflex. Be assured it will not happen again." He stirred the shag ash in his pipe with the untreated end of a Vesta, knocked the pipe empty against his boot heel, and pocketed the offensive instrument.