“Not at all. I understand that the incident happened on Bei Peak.”
Lennox nodded and poured himself another drink. “Coming back down from the peak.”
“On the north side? You did take the north route, I presume?”
“Of course. And yes, the attack happened on the north side.”
“It is quite a distance from here to Bei Peak,” Greison mused. “Could the creature really have come all that way?”
“Crikey, if the thing is stalking us,” Mackay said, “maybe we should pack up and move somewhere else?”
“No, we’ll stay here, at least for the time being,” Lennox said. “We’ll just keep a good watch. Besides, as close as you came to frostbite, you should probably rest a bit before your next long trek. Give your legs the chance to recover fully.”
“Thank you, sir. I was quite worried for a while, when my legs lost all feeling.”
“I know how that is,” Lennox responded, and began unlacing his boot. As his two guests watched, he removed both the boot and his heavy wool sock, and lifted his bare left foot up for them to see. The second toe, the one nearest the big toe, was missing.
“It happened five years ago, while I was in the Arctic Circle,” Lennox told them. “I came down with frostbite and didn’t even know it. It’s not like you’re normally conscious of your tall toe, so when the feeling goes away, you don’t even notice it. But then the feeling in my entire foot started to go away.” George Lennox wiggled his remaining four toes and grinned conspiratorially. “Now I’ll show you something I’ve rarely shown to anyone.” He lowered his foot, reached into the pocket of his jacket, and pulled something out, which he set on the table.
“Crikey,” Mackay muttered.
“A good luck charm?” Greison asked.
“More of a reminder,” Lennox said, picking up the black, desiccated human toe and studying it. “It’s a reminder to know my limits and never do anything foolish while on a mountain.” Then he picked up the bear’s paw paperweight from the table. “At least I fared better than this fellow,” he said, laughing. “I shot the owner of this some years back and kept his paw as another reminder.”
“Of what?” Greison asked.
“To hold steadfast and keep courage.”
The wind suddenly came up again, buffeting the tent walls as Lennox put his sock and boot back on. Chatang appeared in the doorway and motioned for Greison, who got up and quietly conversed with him for a moment, then returned to the table, as the Sherpa disappeared as quickly as he had arrived.
“In light of the wind, would it be too much of an imposition if we were to stay here for the evening?” Greison asked. “Chatang tells me that there is space in the Sherpa tent, and I am certain I could make do somewhere.”
“By all means, stay here,” Lennox said. “I would hate to have turned a man away during a storm, never to see him again. Perhaps you could bunk in Mackay’s tent, since you’re old friends now.”
“Excellent,” Greison said.
Mackay finished his drink, and said, “Poor Chatang seems to be taking the news of his brother’s death well at any rate.”
Lennox crushed the butt of his cigarette. “His brother? You mean your Sherpa is the brother of Nimu?”
“I am afraid so,” Greison said. “It’s a small world, isn’t it?”
“Hmm. Were they close?”
“They were brothers. There is always a bond between brothers, no matter how aloof they might appear to those around them. The reason we are here on the mountain was to track down Nimu and bring him back to the village.”
“Why? What did he do?”
“He did nothing,” Greison said. “But I am afraid his mother has died. We were coming to get him because of that, Chatang and I.”
“Crikey,” Mackay said. “I know what it’s like to lose a parent. But to lose your mother and your brother just like that …”
“It is a tragedy,” Greison agreed.
“How did you even know where to look for Nimu?” Lennox asked.
“Oh, that was no problem. We already knew that Nimu had signed on with your expedition. He told his brother as much before leaving. Then it became a question of discovering your whereabouts on the mountain. Even though we were not far away, it was fortuitous that Mackay stumbled into the cave we had been using as shelter.”
Lennox lit another cigarette and took in as much smoke as his lungs would accept in the high altitude. “Did Nimu tell his brother anything else about me?”
“I have no idea,” Greison replied. “What should he have told him?”
“Oh, maybe that I pay more for guides than anyone else on the mountain. I offer five rupees a day, which is twice what these Tibetan dogs will get from anyone else. I would hate for that to become common knowledge among the pack mules, because then I would be swarmed by them, all begging for guide jobs, no matter what their proficiency on a climb.”
“You seem to take a dim view of the native people here, Sir George.”
“They are what they are,” he replied. “They have a certain amount of knowledge about climbing, and they have whatever odd mutancy it is that allows them to thrive on little oxygen, but they have neither the inclination nor the intelligence to give orders to others. You do not see a Sherpa leading an expedition, do you? No, because they cannot. They are followers. Pack mules. But I will give you this: if I can find the right one to support me, George Lennox will go down in history as the first man to stand atop Everest.”
The wind was picking up, and Lennox stood. “I’d better make certain that the dogs are properly kenneled,” he said. “I hope my camp will prove comfortable for you, Greison. It’s not Buckingham Palace, but it’s better than freezing to death.”
“I am certain it will be more than sufficient.”
“I have work to do,” Lennox said. “Feel free to remain in here for a while if you like, but leave some of the brandy. Oh, and there’s one other rule here, and that is that this is my camp and my expedition, and in my expeditions, the Sherpas don’t come into the men’s tents. I’ll thank you to abide by that, Greison.”
“I will remember.”
“Right,” Sir George Lennox said, and putting his fur-lined hood up over his head, he slipped through the door flap.
“Just imagine, Everest!” Mackay was saying. “I’d like to be in that party.”
“I think it is highly unlikely that any man will stand atop the world’s highest peak,” Greison said, “at least not in my lifetime.”
“Oh, I’d put my money on the captain to do it. They said Guangming Peak couldn’t be conquered either, but he did it, just last year. The Queen was so impressed she knighted him for it.”
“But Guangming is not Everest. Besides, there are the mountain gods to contend with. I daresay they would not like to be disturbed.”
“Now you’re having a go at me because I’m just an apprentice mountaineer,” Mackay charged, “but I don’t spook easily. And I don’t believe in the local superstitions.”
“My dear young friend, to paraphrase a playwright even more insightful than Gilbert and Sullivan, there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
“Well, I’ll stick with my philosophy for the time being.”
“As you wish,” Greison said, rising from the table. “As long as we are here, let us see if there is some way in which we can help out in the camp.”
Throughout the day the two helped to prepare the camp against the likelihood of another powerful storm, and on several occasions, Mackay saw Greison slip over to where Chatang was and engage him in brief conversations. Shortly before the evening meal, Greison spoke with all three of the Sherpas. Mackay said nothing at the time, but later, inside their tent, after the sun had gone down, taking a break from penciling notes in his journal, he broached the subject to Greison. “You’re not planning something, are you?” he asked.
The inside of the tent was illuminated only by the red glow of Greison’s ciga
rette. “Whatever do you mean?”
“You’ve spent a good part of the day talking with the Sherpas. I’m not the only one who noticed. I saw the captain watching you like a bird of prey. You’re not planning on … I don’t know … inciting a revolt, or anything like that, are you?”
“Sherpas are not of a revolutionary nature, my friend. Even if I wanted to, I doubt I could spark something so dramatic as that.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“I merely asked them to keep watch.”
“Watch over what?”
“Over the reappearance of the yeti, of course.”
“I hope I never have to face a thing like that,” Mackay declared. “Hearing it was bad enough.”
Greison suddenly sat up on his cot. “Since you have brought the matter up, how would you describe the sound that you heard last night, before you ventured out into the storm?”
“It was just like the captain described: eerie, almost unearthly.”
“Was it something like this?” Placing one hand over his mouth, Greison began to make a startling, high-pitched cry, which echoed through the tent, prompting Mackay to leap up from his cot as though given an electric jolt. “That’s it! That’s it exactly! You’ve heard it too!”
“I have heard it, all right, but it is not a yeti. I was imitating a snow leopard. Under the right circumstances, their howl can indeed sound unearthly.”
“It was nothing but a snow leopard we heard then?”
“There is no reason to sound disappointed, Mackay. A snow leopard is still a formidable threat.”
“It’s not that, it’s just—”
His words were interrupted suddenly by the sound of a wail coming from somewhere outside. Mackay started to speak but Greison hushed him. The sound came again, the bone-chilling, pitiful howl of a beast somewhere near the camp. Another sound then rent the night: the collective panicked shouts of a half dozen men. That was followed by a scream.
Immediately, Greison and Mackay were up and threw on their coats and boots, and ran outside. Foss was already there, lighting a torch, though it was nearly too cold for fire. Then George Lennox appeared, crying, “What happened!”
“We don’t know yet,” said Foss.
“Check the Sherpas’ tent,” Greison called, and the men ran there, only to find a large, jagged rip in the canvas wall.
“Crikey!”
“Look at this, Captain!” Foss lowered his torch to the snow, revealing a trail of blood. Following it, they quickly came upon one of the Sherpas, lying facedown in the snow. “Don’t touch him, he might still be alive!” Lennox said, kneeling to examine the prone figure. After a few moments, though, he looked to the others and shook his head. Then he rolled the body over. The sight of the Sherpa’s face seemed to shock George Lennox. “Good God, it’s Ang!”
“Aye, and look at him,” Foss said, wincing.
The Sherpa’s face had been slashed as though by the claws of an enormous animal.
“Is anyone else missing?” Greison asked.
Foss quickly surveyed the party and said, “The other two Sherpas are here.”
“But I don’t see Chatang anywhere,” Mackay said.
“Maybe the blasted thing got him, too,” Foss said.
“Are there any more torches here?” Greison asked.
“Aye, over there.” Foss led the rest to a supply box and pulled out and lit two more torches.
“Are we to look for Chatang, then?” Mackay asked.
“Yes, but also look for footprints,” Greison said.
“What kind of footprints?”
“Any that you can find. Mackay, Foss, you check over there. I will look in this direction.”
The three of them set off in different directions from the camp, their torches burning holes of light in the dark frigid night. Lennox, meanwhile, was instructing the two remaining Sherpas to pull the body of Ang out and away from the camp. But they refused to touch it, which angered the expedition leader.
“Ang can’t hurt you!” Lennox barked. “Move him the hell out of here, or else that thing will come back into the camp to get it, and maybe you, too!” Still they refused to touch it. “I know you dogs speak the Queen’s English well enough to know what I’m saying, so what’s wrong with you? Move! Move now, or I’ll …” Lennox raised his hand to strike the closest one, but at that moment Greison appeared behind him and grabbed his arm, restraining it. Lennox growled, “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Let go of me!”
“Hitting them will do no good,” Greison said.
“I will not have my authority challenged on this expedition, not by them, and not by you!”
“The reason they are disobeying you is because they want to say a mani over the body before moving it.”
“A what?”
Greison let go of Lennox’s arm. “A prayer.”
“A prayer,” Lennox repeated, “like they’ve got a soul? Ha! They’re two-legged yaks, nothing more.”
“If you want the body moved, I’m afraid you will have to let them have their way.”
Casting a cold gaze from Greison to the guides and back, Lennox spat, “Be quick about it, then.”
The two Sherpas nodded to Greison and began to chant something over the remains of their friend.
“What about that coolie of yours?” Lennox demanded of Greison. “Has he been found yet?”
“Not yet, though I am certain we shall see him again.”
“Not if the snowman gets him first.”
“It is my opinion that the snowman would be foolish to try.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Just then Mackay ran up, panting precious spouts of breath and holding his blazing torch high. “No sign of footprints,” he gasped.
“Never run in this altitude, boy,” Lennox said. “Haven’t you learned anything from me?”
Foss appeared a moment later, with the same report. There were no fresh footprints to be found anywhere around the camp, other than those the mountaineers had made.
“That is most interesting,” Greison said, tenting his gloved hands in front of his mouth.
“What’s all this footprint rubbish about anyway?” Lennox asked.
“We all heard the cry of the yeti, did we not? And we have seen the effect of its presence on poor Ang?”
“We did and we have,” Lennox said. “What are you getting at?”
“How strange, then, that there are no footprints,” Greison said. “There should be a trail of rather sizable marks coming from some direction into the camp, and yet there appear to be none. Likewise, there are no footprints leaving the camp. Surely it did not fly in, kill its victim, then fly out again.”
“Crikey, he’s right!” Mackay exclaimed.
“So that means …” Foss began.
“It means that the killer of Ang never journeyed to the camp and never left the camp. He is, and always has been, right here.”
In the flickering torchlight, the men looked from one to the other.
“Are you trying to say that there is no yeti at all?” Lennox asked. “That one of us killed Ang?”
“That seems to be the most likely conclusion,” Greison replied.
“Bollocks!” Lennox shouted. “I saw the thing, man! All of us heard it! What more do you want?”
Foss’s expression was one of a man trying to work out a puzzle in his mind. “We still haven’t found the Sherpa that you brought with you, Greison,” he said. “Maybe he killed Ang, then fled.”
“Then he would have had to fly as well, since there is no trail of footprints leading away from the camp,” Greison said.
“Pah!” Lennox spat. “I’ve taken as much of this as I’m going to. I have another guide dead, and you’re worried about footprints. Greison, I’m willing to attribute your ridiculous allegations to dementia from lack of oxygen to the brain and leave it at that. Once the sun comes up, I’m sure you’ll be able to find all the footprints you like. But if you wan
t to keep looking for them in the dark, armed with nothing but torches, go right ahead. I’m going to go to my tent. Good night.”
“Sleep well, Sir George,” Greison said, as the man walked toward his tent. “Oh, by the way, I would not be overly concerned about Chatang’s disappearance, I am certain he will turn up. He is most likely off grieving his brother’s death in solitude. It turns out that he and Nimu were quite close. In fact, he told me that Nimu confided in him often, and told him all about the various expeditions he guided, including the last one of yours.”
Lennox stopped and turned. “Did he offer any details?”
“Some pertinent ones, yes, but that is neither here nor there. I only bring this up to demonstrate how close the brothers were. You had asked me about that earlier, if you recall.”
“I recall.” Then Lennox turned around again and trudged to his tent.
Once Lennox was inside the tent Mackay said, “Did you see the look on the captain’s face when he saw it was Ang? I thought he was shaken by Nimu’s death, but this one’s really rattled him.”
“Aye,” said Foss, whose face bore a troubled look. “We should turn in, too.”
“I agree,” Greison said. Then, in an unusually loud voice, he added, “I suggest that the two of you sleep in the same tent tonight. Foss, why don’t you relocate to the tent I had been sharing with Mackay. I will take this one.”
Foss was about to protest, but Greison was already dousing his torch outside the tent in question. Lifting the flap, he disappeared inside.
“That’s one queer duck you brought back with you,” Foss told the young man. “Who is he, anyway?”
“I don’t know if I should be telling you this,” Mackay said, “but you’ve heard of Sigerson, right?”
“Sigerson? You mean he’s Sigerson?”
“For some reason he doesn’t want people to know. Crikey, my lungs are burning. I need to get inside.”
As Mackay and Foss retired to their tent for the evening, the Sherpa guides finished carrying the body of Ang beyond the edge of the camp, far enough away that if an animal—or beast—were to return for it, it would not venture into the tent area. Then they made their way back to their tent.
Sherlock Holmes: The Hidden Years Page 3