by Dan Simmons
The slide changed. The room was filled with the smell of the projector’s limelight fuel.
“This is Tang La,” said Sigerson. “The last real gateway before the Forbidden Kingdom of Tibet. Tang La, which means ‘Clear Pass’, was a bit more of a challenge since it is exposed to snow avalanches, even in the autumn when my small party attempted it, and its high point above fifteen thousand feet saw severe blizzards. You can see that both we and the ponies were liberally caked with ice.”
These photographs were not taken by “Sigerson”, thought James. He’s come into their possession somehow and passes them off as his own, but one always sees the Europeans and Tibetans from a distance. One can never make out the so-called Sigerson.
The next photograph was a close-up of Sigerson in padded clothing—mustache and eyebrows caked with ice—sitting astride one of the ponies. Behind him, out of focus but solid, was the trail down the pass to a high valley rimmed with countless giant peaks.
“The Tibetan pony is a tough little creature,” said Sigerson, “but with emphasis on ‘little’ as much as on ‘tough’. As you can see, my boots constantly dragged on the ground. If the pony attempted to take me somewhere I did not want to go, I would simply stand up and let the pony run out from under me. At other times, if I did not want the pony to go somewhere it wanted to go, I would grab that uncomfortable-looking Tibetan wooden saddle and lift the pony off its hooves until we agreed on a direction.”
The next photographic slide showed palm trees, tropical plants in giant pots, and Sigerson standing with a much younger blond man on a terrace of some sort. Women in saris stood in the background.
“Sven Hedin!” cried Mr. Helmer Halvorsen Vollebæk.
“Yes, I’m sorry,” said Sigerson. “This slide is out of sequence. I asked an acquaintance to take this photo in Bombay when I stopped there to see Sven Anders Hedin.”
“May we inquire who Mr. Sven Anders Hedin is?” asked Clarence King, rising to pour himself more brandy from a decanter on a side table.
“Oh, Mr. Hedin is one of Norway’s most promising young explorers and alpinists,” replied Mr. Vollebæk. “He is only twenty-eight yet already he has shown glimpses of his great accomplishments to come.”
“In Bombay, Sven told me that he decided to become an explorer when he was fifteen years old,” said Sigerson, stepping back from the heat rising from the projector’s chimney. “He witnessed the triumphant return of our nation’s great Arctic explorer Adolf Erik Nordenskiöld and then and there decided his future profession.”
“I am surprised that young Hedin did not cross the passes into Nepal with you, Mr. Sigerson,” said Clarence King.
Sigerson nodded. “Hedin was seriously ill with recurring malaria when I visited him in Bombay,” he said softly. “But this autumn he should be embarked upon his first great quest—a multi-year exploration of Central Asia.”
The large glass slide rasped in its mechanism, and the image on the screen changed. Most of the men in the room gasped.
“The Potala . . . the temple-residence of the Dalai Lama in Lhasa in the heart of Tibet,” said Sigerson.
Henry James, who had also gasped at the photo, tried to take in the impossible scale of the palace. Were those saffron-colored specks at the bottom of the golden staircase actually human beings?
As if reading his thoughts, Sigerson said, “Yes, the scale of the Potala is hard to fathom . . . especially since the rest of Lhasa is so pathetic: sagging mud-and-timber homes, endless narrow alleyways filled with dog carcasses and unspeakable refuse. But rising above all that . . . this. To give you a sense of its scale, all of Britain’s Parliament would fit along the lower third of the Potala, with Big Ben rising only to the high point of the staircase. The temples and lamas’ residences are all higher than that in the structure.”
“I don’t see how you did it, Mr. Sigerson,” Clarence King said flatly. “I just don’t understand how you did it.”
“Did what, Mr. King?”
“Got into Tibet . . . all the way to Lhasa. Scores of Europeans have tried it. None have succeeded. Surely you couldn’t have disguised yourself as a Tibetan pilgrim as so many of our explorers have . . . down to shaving one’s head and wearing saffron rags. The Tibetan authorities always find them out. And you’re far too tall to pass yourself off as a Tibetan.”
Sigerson smiled. “I did not disguise myself in any way. I simply told the sheriffs, warlords, soldiers, and palace police whom I met that I was a pilgrim.”
“And did your fellow travelers over the high passes also get to Lhasa?” asked John Hay.
“No. They were all turned back near the border.”
“I don’t understand,” King said a final time.
“We Norwegians are a persistent race,” offered emissary Mr. Vollebæk.
The last slide filled the screen. It was taken from a distance but showed Sigerson sitting on a low boulder in a courtyard talking to a young boy in a saffron robe. The brown-skinned lad’s head was shaved save for a single topknot, and his back was to the camera.
“The thirteenth Dalai Lama,” said Sigerson. “He was sixteen years old when I was allowed multiple audiences with him in the winter of eighteen ninety-one, ’ninety-two. The audiences were a double honor since His Holiness was in seclusion away from the Potala, receiving intense and rigorous instruction for the role he was soon to assume.”
“I’ve read that most of the young Dalai Lamas don’t live long enough to assume temporal power,” said John Hay.
“This is true,” said Sigerson. “The ninth through twelfth Dalai Lamas all died young, many presumed to have been murdered by their acting regents, all of whom have a tendency to cling to power. This young man’s predecessor, the twelfth Dalai Lama, died after his regent arranged for his bedroom ceiling to collapse on him while he slept.”
“Mother of God,” whispered King.
“One of the few religious concepts that Tibetan Buddhists do not recognize in some form,” Sigerson said without any obvious irony.
“May we ask what you discussed with the thirteenth Dalai Lama?” Hay asked diffidently.
“The nature of reality,” said Jan Sigerson/Sigurdson.
* * *
The Vollebæk family was the first to depart. Handshakes and announcements that it had been a wonderful evening filled the huge mahogany-walled foyer.
When Clarence King asked a servant to fetch his cape, hat, and walking stick, Sigerson surprised James—and the others it seemed—by saying, “Could I please speak to you gentlemen in Mr. Hay’s study for one minute?”
The study was still overheated and smelling of limelight, although servants had already removed the screen and bulky projector.
“I have to go soon,” grumped King. “I have to travel to New York tomorrow before heading to Mexico and . . .”
“This will take only a second, gentlemen,” said Sigerson, presuming the liberty of closing the door of Hay’s study behind him.
“I need to talk to all of you tomorrow at ten a.m.,” said Sigerson in a voice that James had not heard from him yet. If it was not a tone of absolute command, it was very close to it. “Mr. Hay, may I presume upon your good graces a final time to allow the meeting here in your study?”
“I . . . well . . . on Monday I must . . . well, yes. If it’s a brief meeting.”
“It will be brief,” said Sigerson.
“Not possible,” said Clarence King. “I have the noon train to New York to meet and several . . .”
“Mr. King,” Sigerson said softly, “I would not ask you to come back unless it were of extreme importance. One might say it is a matter of life and death. And it involves your friend Mr. Henry Adams.”
Hay and King looked at each other, and James could almost imagine the near-telepathy at work between the old friends.
“Damn it, man,” barked King, “don’t make a mystery out of it if it’s something that involves Adams. Tell us now why you have us gathered here.”
“I’m
sorry but it must be tomorrow morning here at ten o’clock,” said Sigerson. “I understand that Mrs. Hay will be out of the house for most of the day so we will not be disturbed. Do I have your solemn promises that you will be here?”
“I also have plans to . . .” began Henry James and then stopped when he saw the hawk-like intensity of Sigerson’s glance at him. The Norwegian was quite obviously mad as a hatter and it seemed safer for James to play along with the others present than to become the sole object of the madman’s attention.
John Hay, Henry James, and Clarence King promised to be there. King did not sound happy.
“Thank you,” said Jan Sigerson and opened the door to the study as if releasing them all from his control, but only for the time being.
CHAPTER 18
They assembled in Hay’s study promptly at 10 a.m. and took the same seats they’d occupied the night before: John Hay behind his broad desk; Clarence King and Henry James in leather wingback chairs set on both sides of the desk and still turned toward the wall of books where the screen had been. King was grumbling. Hay looked embarrassed that this was happening in his home. The internationally renowned wordsmith Henry James kept his mouth shut.
At ten minutes after ten, King said, “What the hell? That impertinent Norwegian orders us . . . orders us . . . to be at his beck and call at ten a.m. and then he doesn’t show up? I’ve boxed men’s ears for less.”
“Benson told me that Sigerson left the house very early this morning. Very early,” said Hay. “And Benson said that he was carrying his portmanteau.”
“Have you counted the silver?” said King.
James concentrated on not speaking. He’d gone to Sigerson’s room at eight that morning only to find the room empty. His first impulse had been also to pack and flee, but then he realized that the imposter’s absence might give him a way to make things right with John and Clara—perhaps even with King if the Norwegian lunatic did not reappear.
At quarter after ten, all three men stood.
“I see no need . . .” began Hay.
“If he thinks . . .” began King.
James was straightening his waistcoat and trying to get his thoughts in proper alignment.
A stranger stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.
It took even Henry James, who’d met the man in this form only a few years before, to see that it was Sherlock Holmes. The Sigerson make-up had disguised the Englishman more than James had given it credit for. Holmes was now in a proper British suit. His hair was now brown, not black, and receding much more dramatically than had Sigerson’s spiky top. With the mustache and make-up around the nose and eyes removed, this version of Sigerson/Holmes looked even leaner, a face that seemed all sharp cheekbones, deep shadows, hawk nose, strong chin, and those piercing eyes.
“Be seated, gentlemen,” said Holmes. His upper-class British accent had returned. “And thank you for coming.”
“Who . . .” began John Hay.
“Who do you . . .” said Clarence King.
Holmes closed the door behind him and motioned with palms out for them to sit. “Everyone here but Mr. James—who has some hint of the truth—knew me the last few days as Jan Sigerson. My true name is Sherlock Holmes. I am a consulting detective. Until two years ago, I lived in London. I went to Nepal in eighteen ninety-one and have now come to Washington in service of Her Majesty’s Government and in the vital interest of the government of the United States of America.”
There was babble and outrage. Clarence King shouted until servants came knocking at the door inquiring as to whether everything was all right. Hay sent them away. Only James had remained seated. For a few moments he felt anaesthetized, totally immobilized, and during those moments he was convinced that either he had died in Paris, in the Seine, that Sunday night, or the deep melancholy that had driven him to France and the Seine two weeks earlier had driven him quite mad. Madness was the only logical explanation for what he was experiencing now.
But is it my madness or this Sigerson/Holmes’s?
Holmes waited until the outcry died down and at least John Hay sat back in his chair. Clarence King still stood and paced, his hands clenched into fists, his usually amiable expression now frozen into a frightening scowl.
“In the spring of eighteen ninety-one, Edward Hooper—you all knew him as ‘Ned’—hired me to look into the circumstances of his sister’s death in eighteen eighty-five and the fact that every year on the anniversary of her death, he—and each of you—has received one of these.” Holmes removed from his tweed jacket not one but six of the She-was-murdered typed cards and handed the short stack to John Hay, whose expression of surprise almost instantly changed to one of shock.
“Ned is dead,” snapped Clarence King. “A suicide like his sister seven years before him.”
“I know that Ned Hooper is dead,” said Holmes. “I do not yet know—none of us here know—if either his death or his sister Clover’s was so simple as suicide.”
“Everyone . . . everyone . . . agreed that Clover’s death was suicide,” snapped King, taking an aggressive step toward Holmes, who watched the shorter but stouter man with what seemed to be complete calm. Holmes removed his black clay pipe and with a “May I?” to Hay, who nodded distractedly, fussed with lighting it. At least, based on the scent when it was lit, the tobacco was not that cheapest of shags he’d used near James a few times on the ship and train.
“Clover took potassium cyanide when she was alone in her house,” continued King, who waved away the stack of cards when Hay tried to pass them to him. “Ned Hooper tried twice to kill himself—once by throwing himself in front of a trolley—and finally threw himself from a high window of the sanitorium . . . some called it an asylum . . . to which he’d been referred.”
“But no one we know of saw either Mrs. Adams’s death by potassium cyanide or her brother Ned’s actual throwing himself from the window,” said Holmes between slow puffs that seemed to be further antagonizing King.
“You don’t need to see the snow falling to know it’s snowed if you go to sleep outside in the mountains on dry grass and wake up under a coating of new snow,” growled King.
“Very good,” said Holmes. “I applaud the use of inductive logic. However, in this case, we have a brother and sister dead supposedly by their own hand, but in neither case need it be suicide. Mrs. Clover Adams became quite good friends with a Miss Rebecca Lorne in the year before she died. Is this not true?”
“What?” snapped King.
“She did,” said John Hay. “I met Miss Lorne on several occasions. A pleasant lady.”
“And this was the lady who was waiting outside Mr. Adams’s former home when he came home to find his wife dead upstairs, is this not correct?” said Holmes. He relit the pipe.
“So what?” said Hay, sounding angry himself now. “Miss Lorne visited Clover almost every day in those last months. She was waiting outside when Adams was about to go to his appointment that morning. Or perhaps when he came back for something, I forget which. At any rate, Miss Lorne did not find the body . . . poor Henry did.”
“And Miss Lorne moved away from Washington a month or so after Clover Adams’s death?” Holmes’s voice was soft but persistent.
“Yes . . . to Baltimore,” said Hay. “Where she married a Mr. Bell some months later . . . by the summer of eighteen eighty-six, I believe. Henry still corresponded with her in the years after Clover’s death. Perhaps he still does from time to time.”
“I doubt it very much,” said Holmes. “I believe the woman you knew as Miss Rebecca Lorne was murdered shortly after she left Washington. Perhaps before.”
“You’re mad,” said Clarence King.
“Wait a minute,” said Hay. “Let’s discuss this . . . performance of the past few days and last night in which you claimed to be an explorer named Jan Sigerson. What on earth was that about?”
“A necessary ruse,” said Holmes. There was a third leather chair empty, one facing Hay’s desk,
and he sat in it. “Those who have been hunting me knew that I would come to honor Ned Hooper’s request.”
“Those who have been hunting you . . .” said Hay.
“Damned slow about getting here,” said King. “You say Hooper—you have no right to call him ‘Ned’, whoever you are—asked you to come help him with this cards-thing in the spring of ’ninety-one, yet here you are showing up in the spring of ’ninety-three, months after Ned killed himself. Good thing you’re not a fireman or policeman.”
“I am a policeman in a manner of speaking,” Holmes said quietly. He had sprawled into the deep chair with one leg thrown carelessly over the other.
Henry James finally found his voice. He deliberately spoke to Hay and King, not to the man sitting opposite him. “Last night we received, from Mr. Vollebæk and his family, near-conclusive proof that this man, in make-up or not, is the Norwegian explorer Jan Sigerson. We heard the Norwegian language spoken fluently between them. We heard His Excellency Mr. Vollebæk speak of Norwegian friends he and Sigerson had in common. We then saw the slides of Sigerson’s expedition into Tibet, including the photograph from Bombay of Sigerson with the younger explorer Sven Anders Hedin—known to all three of the Vollebæks. It seems to me that the only sane conclusion we can draw here is that this man has long been pretending to be the English detective Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps the high-altitude in the Himalayas affected his mind . . .”
Holmes removed the pipe from his mouth and chuckled. “My dear James, do you accept the legerdemain of a theatrical magician with as much eager credulity as you did my bona fides for being Jan Sigerson?”
James felt himself flushing with anger and embarrassment but he forced his voice to remain calm, reasonable, and civilized. “There was no reason for Mr. Vollebæk and his wife and daughter to perjure themselves with . . .”
“There was one excellent good reason, my dear James,” said Holmes, standing again and prodding the air with the stem of his pipe. “As soon as I learned that I’d be dining with the Vollebæks on Sunday, the twenty-sixth, I cabled King Oskar the Second of Scandinavia and asked him to have his Norwegian emissary support my story and disguise. You see, I still have use for explorer Sigerson. Mr. Vollebæk is giving interviews to reporters from the Washington Post and a writer from the Washington Critic even as we speak, telling all about his delightful evening with his fellow countryman Sigerson at the home of Mr. John Hay . . .”