Greater London seemed not to have changed at all since I had been gone, at least on the surface. However underneath all the fine buildings and statuary, the busy crowds and traffic of hansom cabs, and the bustle of big-city life, I noticed with great trepidation those small and disturbing items that made up that dark pall I felt had enshrouded the city.
While there had not been any substantial change, there was a new meanness in the people, and I could see fear in their eyes. I had never seen such before in the good people of London. To be sure, people went about their daily business as they always have; but more than ever, they did so without paying attention to anyone else around them. Like horses with blinders on, they did not talk to strangers, they did not ever look in another’s eyes. And the police and constables—well, I could see that people feared them now as they had never done so before—and even more so the plainclothes detectives of the Yard. As you said, Watson, these seemed to have been organized into some form of secret police.
I saw it all with my own eyes as I walked the streets of London. The police now take people off the streets at all hours for questioning if it is even suspected they have made some negative remark against the king. I hear tell some of them do not return. The Tower of London has been reopened and is being used for a special type of prisoner—so-called enemies of the Crown. I have been told the dungeons below the Tower are filled with malefactors who have been imprisoned for political crimes against the Crown without charges filed or any trial. Something our Good Queen Victoria would never sanction in all her years as our sovereign. Our new king seems to be seeking an expansion of the powers of the monarchy. With Moriarty an advisor behind the throne, it appears he and King Eddy are beginning a program that will strangle our nation. I fear where it will finally lead.
Another item I heard in my travels through the city today: there will be a rally in Hyde Park to seek a redress of the people’s grievances with the monarchy. It seems this could be the beginning of much civil unrest in our city. I was determined to attend that rally later in the day and see for myself what the situation was in this other London I now found myself a part of.
Meanwhile, upon reaching Lestrade’s rooms at Great Russell Street I was surprised to see through the front window that the former Scotland Yard inspector was already ensconced with a visitor. I smiled at my good fortune when I noticed his guest was none other than Inspector Tobias Gresgon, also now formerly of the Yard. Here, indeed, was an opportunity to score two birds with one stone, so to speak.
Once more I relied upon my disguise as the old sailor, Sigerson. I could not give away my identity yet, and these men would scarcely believe my identity in any regard. To them, like this entire world I found myself in, Sherlock Holmes was dead. I would leave him dead for a while longer.
I had to keep reminding myself that, indeed, I was not their Sherlock Holmes, but was from another world, a different one than this, and that while my sympathies ran with the problems I had observed here, my heart yearned to be back in my true home. For in fact, this world was becoming more and more of a nightmare to me.
But now, first things first. Lestrade and Gregson were about to have a visitor.
Lestrade answered the bell, the little man looked as ferretlike as ever, his small mustache and nose crinkling up with distaste as he saw me.
“I do not accept solicitations, my good man. Now begone,” he said as he made to slam the door in my face.
My foot in the breach prevented that nicely, and I responded with a powerful growl, “Lestrade, I bring word to you from an enemy of your enemy. Be you interested?”
“Here now! What?” Lestrade muttered, perplexed, but it was Gregson who, standing close behind, put his hand on his companion’s shoulder saying, “I think we should hear what this man has to say.”
Lestrade shrugged and moved away from the door. “Very well.” Then to me he said, “You may enter, old man, and explain yourself forthwith.”
I smiled and said calmly, “I serve the enemy of your enemy. My master must remain anonymous until a time in the future when it is safe for him to reveal himself.”
“Sherlock Holmes is dead, old man,” Lestrade said boldly.
“That, my good inspectors, has yet to be determined,” I growled forcefully. “But that is not a question to be answered now. What is important now is that we confront Moriarty and his organization. He must be defeated or England and the world are doomed!”
“Moriarty?” Lestrade said. “But he is the king’s man now.”
“And the man behind the king’s oppression of the people, and your own problem, Lestrade,” I replied boldly.
Both men stood quiet for a long moment.
“Fine words, whoever you are, old man, but we have been sacked, the king has appointed Moriarty’s henchman, Moran, commissioner of Scotland Yard, and we no longer have any official capacity,” Gregson offered gruffly.
“Nevertheless, there are ways,” I said plainly. “What I and my master want to know is this. Are you interested?”
“Aye,” Lestrade barked. “I tell you at this point I care not for reinstatement to my previous position so much as I would like to wreak revenge upon those who brought this atrocity upon me. Gregson and I were discussing this very matter before you showed up, but we were at a loss what to do.”
“I believe that I can remedy that situation, with a course of action,” I said with a smile.
Then I told Lestrade and Gregson what I had in mind, and they promised to meet me later that evening.
On my way back to your East End room, Watson, I passed by Hyde Park. It was but a couple of blocks from our old lodgings at Baker Street, and there I saw throngs of people listening to speakers from various political parties publicly airing their grievances against the Crown and king. Such has been a custom in London and the park for generations and oftentimes it was merely the venue of fools or the unstable. But not today. Today there were thousands of citizens present from all classes and social positions who had felt the cruel yoke of oppression from this new monarch over the last year. In a rare effort, members of the Liberal and Conservative Parties had united to seek redress against the Crown. I walked over to the speaker’s platform in order to hear some of the grievances and listened with intense interest to one firebrand after the other describe acts that flew in the face of our good English law. I could scarce believe what I was hearing, but then I must remember that this for all its symmetry and exactness, was not my England, not my world.
I was harshly reminded of that fact when companies of stout London bobbies, who, I noticed now, uncharacteristically carried firearms, had been brought in to break up the crowd.
“This is an unlawful assembly and you are hereby ordered to disperse immediately by order of the king,” the captain of police demanded of the crowd.
Well, the speakers began to incite those assembled to taunt the police, and soon the crowd was booing and telling them to leave. To my consternation, I noticed light cavalry that could only be from the Royal Household Guard forming up at the edge of the lake. This was not a positive development.
There was alarm and concern growing now in the faces of the crowd as well. The police captain demanded once more, “You have been ordered to disperse immediately or face the consequences.”
Well, this was a fine pickle I can tell you, but matters got far worse when some in the crowd went from booing the constables to throwing objects. What happened next can only go down in the history books as a day of bloody murder. For the Household Guard drew their sabers and moving upon the crowd suddenly burst into a wild charge with points down and out. The effect was dramatic and disastrous, and after ten minutes of chaos, I could see there were dozens killed and hundreds wounded.
The remnants of the crowd along with the various speakers had become a mob and its members were being herded forward and arrested. I was able to make my way to safety along the lake. Many others were not so lucky. God knows where those arrested were taken or what was done with them.
As I walked the streets of London on my way back to your room, I could not fathom the nightmare world this was. With Moriarty unchecked, it appeared that civilization itself might be doomed.
When I returned to your room you were there waiting for me.
“Holmes! My God! What has happened to you? You look like you have gone through the Battle of Waterloo!”
“Not Waterloo, Watson, the Battle of Hyde Park. I suspect you will read about the massacre at the hands of the king’s troops in tomorrow’s Times,” I said, as I began to clean myself and change my clothes. “But tell me, my friend, did you see Thubten Gyatso and deliver my letter to him?”
“Yes, I did. He is a very old man and had to have the boy at his side read and translate your message to him.”
“Indeed, that is most interesting.” I could not help but raise my eyebrows in curiosity at that inconsistency.
“Holmes?”
“Never mind,” I replied. “But tell me, what was his reply?”
“His reply was one word. ‘Yes.’”
I sighed deeply, in truth I had hoped it would not be so, but knowing the facts as I knew them to be, I had to discover what part our faraway visitor played in this strange series of events.
“We must leave at once, for I believe he may be in danger. Thubten Gyatso may also be the one person in the world who can answer my questions and perhaps help me return to my own world. We must speak with him immediately.”
We had to walk a number of blocks before we could acquire a growler with a driver who would deliver us across town to the Grand Hotel. The hotel was an imposing pile, one of the tallest buildings in London, with six floors. We took the new “lift,” or as the Americans are calling it these days, the “elevator,” to the top floor. That floor was actually taken up by an entire suite of rooms for the express use of His Holiness and his rather large retinue of monks and servants.
We were led by one monk, apparently acting as a majordomo, to wait in a small anteroom while our request for an audience with the Ocean of Wisdom, as he was reverently called, was being considered.
“Ocean of Wisdom, Holmes? Who is this strange man?”
“Not man, Watson, for he is but a boy of sixteen years. His name was Thubten Gyatso in his mortal form, but he is better known as His Holiness the Dalai Lama of Tibet. He is the thirteenth in a line of Dalai Lamas said to be reincarnated from that first of the line back in the fifteenth century.”
“But what of the old man I was introduced to?”
“That old man presented to you as His Holiness was but a surrogate. He was obviously assuming the role for purposes of protection, assuming the target for any assassination attempt to save his master’s life.”
“I see. Rather mysterious, is it not?”
“To be sure. That sixteen-year-old boy has traveled thousands of miles here to London. That is an extremely unusual journey for one of his vaulted status and implies great danger in some manner or form. I believe he knows something about my situation here. I do not know how that can be, but I feel he may be able to help me.”
“How so, Holmes?”
“The Tibetan form of Buddhism is a powerful force for peace and love, as well as the spirit of harmony and justice in the world. They have a long history of spiritualism and knowledge in many esoteric matters, and can detect changes in the flow of worldly events,” I added.
“Well, what was in your note to him? Did you ask him if he knows how you can get back to your own world?”
“No. When I read in the Times that His Holiness had come to London, I knew it could be no mere coincidence. After all, Moriarty and I are in London. This entire scenario of events has London as its nexus. So I asked him, was his reason for coming here because he had detected certain anomalies in the flow of worldly events? As you say, his answer to that question was ‘Yes.’ That is an admission I find very interesting. I also wrote that if that was his answer, then he should take precautions because his life might be in danger. That is why we are here this evening.”
“What can we do, Holmes?”
“Fear not, we have allies, and I have placed them surreptitiously to unmask any danger. But hello, here is the majordomo returned and he is indicating that we are to follow him for our audience with His Holiness.”
The central room of the hotel suite was large and set up as a richly appointed audience chamber in the Far Eastern style. Large and luxurious thankya tapestries hung from the walls bearing colorful images of the Buddha. At the end of the room was an elegant but empty throne, and off to the side standing in front of the large windows stood a young man, shaven pate, dressed in a fine yellow namsa silk robe. Around him buzzed a dozen Tibetan monks, in orange saffron robes, bald of pate as was their master, discussing heated issues as we approached.
Thubten Gyatso saw us and motioned his followers to silence. They quickly formed up in two long rows on either side of the Presence, as he was also known, while we walked forward to meet him.
“Your Holiness, I am Sigerson, and this is my friend, Dr. John H. Watson, who delivered to you a note earlier today,” I said. We shook hands in the Western form of greeting. I had read that His Holiness was very much interested in the modern world and Western customs.
His Holiness the Dalai Lama smiled graciously, he was but a boy, but there was a depth to his face, and most notably his eyes, that made you feel you were in the presence of a much older and wiser man. He was purported to be the reincarnation of the last Dalai Lama, in a line that stretched back to the first master, and I could almost believe it true.
He surprised us by speaking English with a decided British accent, “Welcome, my friends. Yes, I speak English, Mr. Sigerson, thanks to a teacher at the monastery in my youth. I find myself fascinated by all things British and modern and so thought it best to learn the language of the modern world so as to experience it firsthand. But, to get to your question, the answer is, of course, ‘Yes.’ You are correct. You see, for centuries my people have observed visions of the future in the sacred Lake of Lhamo Lhatso at Chokhorgyal. It was on one such vision quest where I viewed all that has transpired and much that will transpire.” The Dalai Lama suddenly stopped speaking. He turned to his retainers, motioned to them, and quickly they began to file out of the chamber. It was not long before we found ourselves alone with the Dalai Lama.
Once we were seated facing each other at the other end of the room, Thubten Gyatso looked at me intently, and said, “You are one of the two men I saw in my vision. Your actions at the exact same time in both worlds caused a breach, a doorway to open between these worlds.”
Well, here seemed more verification of my theory, and even if I did not entirely believe, I knew this had to be the truth. Nevertheless I asked, “How can that be?”
“Better you might ask, how can such a thing not be?” His Holiness replied, answering my question with one of his own. He was silent for a moment before he continued, “Two exact events, happening simultaneously in different worlds—but with opposite outcomes—may open a doorway between those two worlds. Then, it could be possible to fall through from one world to the other. Sigerson, as you call yourself here, you see far, so much farther than most. What does your reason tell you? What do your facts tell you?”
“That what you say may be true,” I replied quietly.
“May be true?” he prompted.
“Must be true,” I amended.
The Dalai Lama nodded his youthful head, smiling graciously, then added, “The other I saw was your nemesis. I have seen all this and more in my visions, and fear for our world with your nemesis unchecked. My visit here, aside from a most selfish desire to see the modern world, was to see if I could alert those involved to correct this error.”
“What error?” I asked.
“In your world, Sigerson, you slew your nemesis. In my world, here, he slew you. That should never have happened. The combination of his living, with your death through that encounter, has caused turmoil in my world. Whi
ch has caused his evil to exert itself to its fullest. The equilibrium has shifted. You must set it level again.”
“I want to get back to my own world, Your Holiness, but if what you are saying is true, I cannot in good conscience let my enemy destroy your world. I know what he is capable of, I have seen the results of his handiwork. I agree with you, I must do something to stop him,” I said.
“Then there is only one way to do that and for you to be able to return to your rightful world. You both are connected by the doorway. It is still open, waiting for you to return …”
“The Falls! That must be it!” you blurted, adding, “Sorry, Holmes.”
“Correct, Doctor,” the Dalai Lama continued. “Mr. Holmes, you must replay the passion of that original encounter once more, and this time you must be victorious. Seek the mist, that is your doorway.”
I looked into the weary eyes of Thubten Gyatso, and there was an almost beatific smile on his face. Most incongruous, that young face, with such worldly old eyes.
“And now, Sigerson, tell me, what does that far vision of yours tell you about me?”
I was taken aback by his request, but I automatically replied, “Ocean of Wisdom seems an appropriate name, and if your youth is any indication, I see great things in store for you and your people in the coming years. You will have a long reign. You are wise. You are good. You understand evil.”
The stoic look on the Dalai Lama’s face never changed as he stood up, and said, “The audience is over; may you be successful in your quest, Sigerson.”
As we got up to leave, His Holiness added, “Dr. Watson, please stay one moment.”
Both men saw the look of surprise on my face. But I left you, Watson, and exited the room to await you in the small anteroom we had been in earlier.
The monk who was acting as majordomo came in, and said, “Your friend will be returned to you presently.”
Sherlock Holmes: The Hidden Years Page 39