Within an hour, all was dark and silent, the only sounds being the steady whine of the wind and an occasional yip from one of the sled dogs, which were huddled together against the cold inside a lean-to. The only light came from the moon, which cast cold blue rays over the snowy mountain plateau. Nobody saw the shadow move through the camp. Nobody heard anything, not even the slow ripping of tent canvas.
It moved through the open wall of the tent and groped its way to the cot inside. Then it began slashing at the figure in the cot, striking it again and again.
It was the cry that awoke Foss and Mackay, a terrible banshee-like wail that seemed to exist only to announce a death. Leaping up, the two jumped into their coats and boots and raced out of the tent. Lennox and the Sherpa guides were already there. “Did you hear it?” Lennox cried.
“Aye,” Foss answered. Then: “Where’s Greison?”
“Crikey, you don’t think it got him, do you?”
Just then, as though in reply, the cry sounded again, startling Lennox so much that he nearly lost his balance and fell down. “What in God’s—” he shouted.
“It came from over there,” Foss said.
“It’s coming from your tent, Captain!” Mackay said.
As the three of them watched, a dim light appeared from inside the tent, and they could make out the silhouettes of two figures inside. Mackay and Foss started toward it, but Lennox said, “No, men, don’t go in there. Don’t!”
The flap of the tent opened, and Greison stepped out, a lit candle in his hand.
“No!” Lennox cried. “How could—”
“Come in before you freeze, gentlemen,” Greison said.
“Who’s in there with you?” Foss called.
“Only my friend, Rampoche Chatang.” The previously missing Sherpa appeared in the opening of the tent.
“Rampoche?” Foss said. “Isn’t that the title for a lama?”
“For the High Lama,” Greison replied.
“Crikey.”
Foss and Mackay entered the tent, but Sir George Lennox stayed where he was.
“Sir George, your presence is required here as well, if you don’t mind.”
“I bloody well do mind,” the explorer declared. “Get that damned Sherpa dog out of my tent!”
Greison sighed. “I was hoping this would not be necessary. Sangwa, Passang …” In an instant, the two Sherpas from the expedition grabbed Lennox’s arms and held him fast, while pushing him into the crowded tent. “Let me go, you mountain niggers!” he cried, but he was unable to break free of them.
“What the hell’s going on here, Sigerson?” Foss demanded.
“Sigerson?” Lennox repeated, glaring at the man.
“I see Mackay has let that particular secret out of its box,” Greison said. “No matter now: what is going on, my dear Foss, is murder at it’s most cold-blooded—specifically, the murders of Ang and Nimu, by the hand of Sir George Lennox.”
“Crikey!”
Lennox smiled thinly. “You’re insane,” he said.
“There is no question that you killed them, Sir George,” Greison said. “And do not bother trying to break free. Passang and Sangwa now obey Rimpoche Chatang, not you.”
“That’s a hell of an accusation, man,” Foss said. “I don’t suppose you have anything in the way of proof, do you?”
“In the pocket of Lennox’s coat, I believe you will find the severed paw of a bear.”
“The captain’s paperweight?” Mackay said.
Lennox made another attempt to break free of the Sherpas, but it was impossible. He cursed and spat as Foss walked over to him and thrust a hand in his coat pockets, pulling out his ram’s horn cigarette holder and, ultimately, the bear’s paw. “I’ll be damned,” Foss muttered.
Taking the paw from him, Greison held the candle close to it and examined the claws. “You see? A bit of Ang’s blood is still visible.”
“So that paw was used to kill Ang?” Foss asked.
“Oh, I doubt it. Were Ang’s body to be carefully examined, I am certain that a knife wound would reveal itself. But there is no question that this paw was used to simulate the attack of a wild beast, which Sir George was hoping would be accepted as a yeti. I have no doubt whatsoever that the claws will match the slashes on his face perfectly.”
“God almighty,” Foss uttered. “Are you some kind of detective, Mr. Greison, or Sigerson, or whatever your name is?”
Greison’s eyes remained riveted on the tense figure of Sir George Lennox. “Up until a fortnight ago, I was nothing more than a traveler in this land, like yourselves, enjoying the hospitality at Rongbuk Monastery, as I have done on several previous occasions. With the Lama’s help, I have all but conquered my dreaded intolerance of boredom, as well as a few other personal problems … but that is immaterial at present. After some time, the serenity of the place was shattered by the news that Lhamu, the mother of Nimu and Chatang, had died suddenly. The family, knowing that Nimu was away on an expedition, desired to get word of the passing to him and bring him back to the village, if possible. Chatang himself decided to go since, prior to achieving the status of rimpoche, he journeyed extensively across the mountains and knew the terrain quite well. He did, however, ask me to accompany him, feeling that I might have more success convincing Sir George to let Nimu leave the expedition, being a fellow European. At the time I thought it quite unnecessary, given Rimpoche Chatang’s standing. However, having witnessed for myself the man’s utter arrogance and delusion of superiority, I now understand his concern.”
“To hell with you!” Lennox spat, still held fast by the Sherpas.
“What I don’t understand is why?” Mackay said. “Why would someone like the captain kill those Sherpas in cold blood?”
“To protect his secret,” Greison replied, setting both the paw and the candle down on the table. “You see, gentlemen, in addition to being a murderer, the famed and much heralded Sir George Lennox is also a fraud and a liar.” He paused to let that sink in, then spoke again: “His expedition to Guangming Peak last year earned him a knighthood, did it not? It also made his reputation as the premiere British mountaineer of our time, and no doubt helped to secure funding not only for this expedition, but future ones as well. How distressing it would be if the world were to learn that it is predicated upon a falsehood—George Lennox never set foot on Guangming Peak. He never came close.”
“Liar!” Lennox shouted.
“How do you know?” Foss asked.
“Exactly the way Lennox feared I knew it: Nimu, who accompanied Lennox on the climb, and who actually did reach the summit, told the truth of the situation to his brother, Rimpoche Chatang, who in turn told me. Sir George had actually become weak and incapacitated from the altitude and had to stop climbing, while Nimu, proceeding onward, reached the top. For a man so convinced of his own superiority as Sir George Lennox, the fact that a native had reached the summit, accomplishing what he himself had proven unable to do, was intolerable. So he drew every bit of information about the climb from Nimu, even questioning him about the view from the summit, and set about spreading the lie that he had, in fact, conquered the mountain. He received a knighthood and an unearned reputation, and no one was the wiser—no one, except, of course, Nimu. All this I knew even before I ever set foot in this camp, but at the time it had no particular bearing on my reason for being here, which was to find Nimu and bring him back to the village. Sir George’s moral lapses were of no concern to me.”
Lennox had ceased struggling and now stared madly at Greison, his face actually moist with sweat, despite the frigid temperature.
“All that changed, however, when I learned of Nimu’s death and the circumstances surrounding it,” Greison went on. “I asked Sir George questions about the route he had taken to Bei Peak, and his answers only confirmed the suspicions that were growing in my mind.”
“I remember that,” Mackay said. “You asked if he took the north route, and he said yes.”
“Precise
ly. That, however, proved to me that he had never been on Bei Peak at all, because there is no north route to it. It is completely inaccessible from that direction. I have scaled the peak myself, so I was testing him on his knowledge of the mountain, and he failed, miserably. This time, however, his lie was not born of a desire to preserve his reputation, but rather to cover his true activities. You see, at first Sir George believed he had nothing to fear from Nimu, the only person on earth who could put lie to his claim. But after receiving his knighthood, and the notoriety that came with it, he realized that the stakes of the game had been raised considerably. If the knowledge Nimu carried were ever to get out, it would invalidate his knighthood and destroy him. So he had to get rid of Nimu. Sir George specifically sought him out for this expedition, all the while plotting his death. He took Nimu with him on the presumed climb to Bei Peak, making the excuse that it was too dangerous for the entire party to go. He went out far enough not to be seen, killed Nimu, hid the body, then returned to camp with the story of having survived an encounter with a yeti. And that, he thought, was the end of it. But then he learned that Nimu had a brother, and began to fear—correctly, as it turned out—that Nimu had confided in his brother the secret of the Guangming expedition.”
“Why kill Ang then?” Foss interrupted. “Why not kill the Lama?”
Greison’s face darkened. “That was a tragic mistake. In his haste—for he only had the most fleeing of moments to execute his attack—he killed the wrong man. It is a tragedy for which I must carry a share of the blame, and I do so heavily. I had warned Rimpoche Chatang of my suspicions and had prepared him for what might happen, but I did not properly inform the expedition guides. Had I done so, Ang might be alive today. When Lennox realized his mistake, however, he became quite agitated, as you, Mackay, mentioned at the time. I instructed Chatang to hide, and he managed to sequester himself with the sled dogs. Having fully realized how dangerous Sir George Lennox was, I knew that I had to be the one to stop him, before another innocent man—and hear me, Lennox, I said man, not yak, not dog, not mule—died. I intimated to Sir George that I, too, knew the secret that he was willing to kill to protect. Do you remember earlier this evening, I made a special point of suggesting the two of you share a tent, while I take one of my own? I did so loudly enough that Sir George would be able to hear me as well. That was my way of announcing to him where I would be sleeping, so he could come and attack me, if he were so inclined, as I believed him to be. And he did attack me—or so he thought.”
Mackay rattled his head. “Or so he thought?”
“If you examine the tent that I had chosen, you will find one wall slashed through and a roll of blankets and skins ripped to shreds on the cot. I positioned those blankets in such a manner as to give a fair facsimile of a sleeping man in the darkness. Thinking they were I, fast asleep, Sir George attacked them with the bear’s paw, then rushed back out before he had a chance to realize the deception. His shocked reaction upon seeing me emerge from his tent, whole and alive, moments later, I believe, spoke for itself.”
“What about that cry we heard?” Foss asked.
“Hand me that ram’s horn,” Greison said. “Granted, I am not the experienced bugler that Sir George claims to be, however …” Greison put the horn to his lips and blew a convincing imitation of the cry that the men had heard earlier that night.
Mackay now looked confused. “But what about that last cry we heard?” he protested. “The captain was with us that time, and I never saw him take out a horn and blow it. So how do you explain that?”
Greison smiled slightly and handed the candle and horn to Mackay. “Really, my boy, what a short memory you have. Don’t you remember our conversation about a snow leopard?” Then he cupped his hands over his mouth, uttering a high, piercing cry that sounded remarkably like the ram’s horn. “That is the closest I can come, but it served the purpose.”
“Aye, it was close enough to fool me,” Foss acknowledged. “So what’s going to happen to the captain now?”
“That is not up to me,” Greison said. Then he turned to Chatang and began speaking in Tibetan, after which he sank down on the cot.
Looking at the rimpoche, Sir George Lennox began to laugh. “After the load of balls I’ve just had to endure, you’re now going to turn me over to the Sherpa?” he said. “You might as well let me go right now, because these dogs aren’t going to do anything to me. It’s against their nature.”
Chatang waved his hands, and the two Sherpas holding Lennox released their grips. The mountaineer shook his arms, then brushed his coat sleeves as if trying to remove a bad stain from them. Rising to his full height, which was considerable, he regarded Greison with a withering stare. “There is nothing you can do to me,” he said icily. “There is nothing anyone can do to me. And there is nothing you can prove. You could have stolen that bear’s paw and clawed up Ang yourself, Greison, then had one of these dogs slip it in my pocket when they were forcing me in here. You, or your friend, the High bloody Lama. You’ve already proven that you can howl like a yeti, so why couldn’t you have done the rest, eh? So be damned, the whole lot of you!” He turned to Chatang with hatred in his eyes. “Especially you.”
Rimpoche Chatang looked back, his gaze steady, but his expression was not one of anger. Instead, it was a look of pity. He spoke one word in Tibetan, then turned away.
“What did he say?” Lennox asked.
Greison stood up. “He said, ‘leave.’ That is your judgment.”
“Leave? That’s all?”
“That is all.”
Sir George Lennox smiled defiantly. “Tell the red-skinned bastard to sod off,” he said. “This is my bloody expedition, and I’ll leave it only when I’m ready to leave it.”
“You could, of course, defy his judgment and stay,” Greison said, “but if you do, I will have no compunction about binding you with rope and leaving you in that condition until I can get you back down the mountain and to the British consulate, to whose officials I will tell the entire story.”
Lennox looked from man to man, and seemed to realize for the first time that he no longer had a friend in the camp. “Flee or be turned in, eh?” he said. “All right, I’ll go, and I’ll get to the consulate first, and I’ll tell them my side of the story. Who do you think they would be more likely to believe?”
Rimpoche Chatang spoke again, softly, and Greison translated: “He said, ‘You will never escape the mountains.’”
“Is that so? Mackay, help me get a pack together. I’ll leave right now and be down in two days.”
Mackay stood where he was.
“Mackay, snap to it, boy! Give me a hand with my pack.”
“No,” Mackay said.
Lennox approached Mackay and for a moment it looked like he would strike the young man, but Mackay did not flinch. “So,” Lennox sneered, “I suppose you feel like a man now, eh, boy? Defying your captain? Mutiny? Is that what you think it takes to put hair down below?”
Mackay returned Lennox’s gaze. “I feel like a better man than you, Sir George.”
“Aye,” Foss said, “and that goes for me, too. Put your own damn pack together.”
“All right, I will,” Lennox said. “I’ll leave here, and I’ll make it back to civilization and see all of you exposed as slanderous liars. But here’s the question, lads: will any of you make it back to civilization at all?”
“Is that a threat, Sir George?” Greison asked, tensely.
“A threat? No. It’s a statement of fact. Without me to lead you, do you really think you’ll get off of this mountain? Think about that, and once you have, bugger off, the stinking lot of you!” Sir George Lennox bolted through the tent flap and spent the next quarter hour tearing through the camp, putting together the provisions he would need for the descent, including taking down one of the tents and rolling it up to carry, and grasping a pickax to use as a walking stick. Then, defying the darkness and bitter cold, he started down the mountain.
Inside th
e tent, no one spoke. Then Mackay broke the silence. “You know he’ll die out there.”
“Aye,” Foss said. “If we let him face the mountain at night, we’re killing him as surely as he killed Ang and Nimu.”
“No,” Rimpoche Chatang said in English, surprising the mountaineers. “Not die. Never die. Gods of mountains will have, will have …” The last word he spoke in Tibetan, leaving Greison to translate it as vengeance. Then Chatang and the other Sherpas solemnly filed out of the tent.
After the last one had gone, Mackay asked, “What did he mean, vengeance?”
“It means the mountain will claim him as another victim,” Foss said.
Greison seated himself on a stool. “I daresay you are right, though perhaps not in the way you are thinking,” he said. “Have you ever heard the legend behind the yeti?”
Foss and Mackay shook their heads.
“According to the legend, there was once a prince of this region who believed himself to be the ruler of the entire Himalayan range. He was proud and arrogant, and he defied the gods who are believed to inhabit these mountains. Angered by his arrogance, those gods cursed him to roam the mountains forever, not as a man, but rather as a lowly beast, feared and hated by all who encountered him. As a result, the man … who had now become the yeti … hid from the eyes of other men, living out his eternal existence in misery and solitude. Well, that is the story, anyway. Mackay, is that watch of yours still working?”
Pulling the battered timepiece from his pocket, he opened the lid, and announced, “It’s half past ten.”
“The sun will be up before you know it. Chatang and I will set off for the monastery in the morning. We should all attempt to get some sleep. And for our safety, gentlemen, I suggest that we remain together, in one tent.”
“Aye,” said Foss.
“Right,” muttered Mackay, putting his watch back in his pocket, and pulling out instead his battered journal and a stubby pencil.
“Crikey,” muttered Mackay, shaking himself out of the memory. So long ago … a lifetime ago … had it really happened?
Sherlock Holmes: The Hidden Years Page 4