The Oriental Casebook of Sherlock Holmes: Nine Adventures from the Lost Years

by Ted Riccardi

  By then it was early morning. Holmes dressed and made his way to the Residence for his usual daily visit with Shiv Shankar and Shri Gunanand. As he entered, it was apparent that something was amiss. Only Gunanand was there. He informed him that the Resident had disappeared during the night and that his whereabouts were unknown. Dr. Wright was now in charge of the Residence and had gone to the Maharajah’s court to notify the Nepalese government of the Resident’s disappearance. Miss Richardson had taken to her room but had left word that she should be notified as soon as Pandit Kaul arrived. She appeared in the pandits’ study almost immediately. She did well in hiding her emotions, but Holmes detected extreme agitation and worry in her eyes.

  “You have probably heard the news of my father’s disappearance, Panditji. Where could he be? I am terribly afraid for him.”

  “Perhaps a walk in the garden might help,” Holmes said. He longed to tell her that her father was safe, but decided that an honestly distraught daughter was the best course, for under the circumstances the merest slip by her and the villains would be threatening her as well.

  She smiled wanly. “Yes,” she said, “why not? Father is very proud of his flowers.”

  As they walked, she told him of the events that had unfolded the night before.

  “I wonder,” said Holmes, “if you could show me the spot where the apparition appeared. I have an interest in folklore and local superstitions, being a native of these mountains myself, though I come from the very far western region.”

  They crossed the terrace and entered the gardens. Several malis were at work, planting new beds of flowers. It was as though they were thrown into St. James’s in May. At one end of the garden Holmes noticed what appeared to be a bathing place.

  “This is an old dhara or watering place, my father says. It dates from the time of the Licchavi kings. It has not been used for centuries,” she said.

  “‘I see that you have become a student of local history,” said Holmes.

  “Not really, though I do take some interest. What I know is very little, some from my father, but mostly from the resident pandits.”

  Holmes was eager to take a closer look at the structure. He noticed what appeared to be an old inscription on the spout of the fountain.

  “‘I would like to have a closer look at the inscription.”

  “Of course,” she said.

  Lucy waited above as Holmes climbed down the small set of steps that descended into the tank itself. Grass and other weeds had filled much of it, and it showed no signs of use. He looked closely at the inscription at first, then his eyes fell to the ground. Everywhere there were high weeds, the look of disrepair, of no movement or life for centuries. At one end there was the usual water spout decorated with ancient gargoyles. Below it a stone bas-relief of the usual water sprite. The sculpture was quite beautiful, but what riveted his attention were two large stones below it that looked as though they had recently been moved. Fresh scrapes around their edges could have been made within the last twenty-four hours. Then he saw on the ground the most interesting thing of all: fragments of wood, or perhaps bamboo, that looked as though they had just been thrown there. He leaned down to pick up the larger pieces, carefully putting them in his pocket.

  Holmes climbed the stairs and rejoined Miss Richardson. “A most interesting inscription,” he said, “of the famous king Amshuvarman.”

  “How interesting,” she said, “‘I had no idea. Perhaps you might translate it . . .” She did not continue, for he could see that she was again overcome by worry for her father.

  She was silent as they walked back to the Residence. As they reached the end of their walk, she looked up and said: “Panditji, I do not trust Dr. Wright. My suspicions may be groundless, for he has done nothing that I can point to, but I sometimes feel in his impatience that he bears my father no good will. Now my father has disappeared and I feel that perhaps Wright has something to do with it.”

  “Miss Richardson,” said Holmes, “let me confide in you. There is far more going on in this Residence than meets the eye, and I shall do all I can to help. Tell no one of our conversation and, above all, nothing of my interest in the inscription in the dhara. I shall be close by should you need me.” She seemed reassured, and Holmes bade her good-bye and left. As he walked back through the bazaar, he began to sift through what he knew. The so-called apparition had come and gone through the dhara, that was clear. The large stones were obvious. But from where to where—that was the major question. How and where did this person enter the dhara from within?

  When he entered the hotel, Gorashar informed him that the Resident was resting peacefully in a hidden location in the hotel, and that he was safe. Holmes then asked if he might avail myself of a small library of Asiatic researches that Gorashar kept in his private lodgings. Gorashar escorted him to the room himself, and Holmes began looking through the historical works on Nepal.

  “I began searching for clues to the ancient form of Katmandu. My eye was immediately caught by a volume entitled Essays on the Languages, History, and Geography of Nepal. The author was Brian Hodgson himself. I grasped the volume and cast my eye quickly over the table of contents. I read quickly through several articles, one on festivals and processions and another on the ancient agricultural implements of the Newars. My eye was soon caught by a title: “On the Fountains and Possible Ancient Waterways of Katmandu.” It was a long tedious essay, filled with detailed descriptions of the various fountains of the cities of the valley, of which there are literally hundreds if not thousands that date from at least early Christian times. One paragraph, however, caught my eye:

  There is no doubt that a complex system of water supply linked the large public fountains both in ancient and medieval times. The large terra-cotta water pipes were serviced by a series of tunnels. There is evidence that the system operated well into the eighteenth century. It is only with the total defeat of the Malla kings by the Gurkhas that this system fell into decay and disuse. Many of the old dharas, having lost their water supply, have turned into vessels of vile filth or have been abandoned to the growth of wild vegetation. If the present regime revives the system, it would be for its own purposes and designs, and it is eminently possible that these underground waterways and tunnels, still sturdy passageways, could be used for political intrigue and military surprise, techniques so successfully employed in the past by the Gurkhas. I am sure that, if one chose to, the Residence compound could be easily infiltrated in this way, but as yet I see no evidence or need for the present rulers to do so. Fortunately, the system appears to have been totally forgotten by the native population.

  “I had found my clue, Watson. The Residence contained one of the entrances to the old underground network. One could enter it with ease from the old dhara, either for invasion or to cause hallucinations. If one knew the system, one could enter and leave from almost any point. This was the means by which Hodgson’s so-called ghost had entered. The grounds of the Residence had indeed been haunted, from the very beginning perhaps, by a number of people working for their own ends. How whoever had come upon his discovery of this ancient network was not clear, but of his use of it I had no doubt. It enabled him to roam the city at will without fear of discovery. I now had to smoke him out or go in after him.”

  Holmes eyes were now ablaze with excitement. He lapsed into silence for a few moments before he proceeded, reliving in memory those moments of turbulent emotion as he began to fit the pieces of this complicated mystery together. I said nothing this time, the look of anticipation on my face being sufficient to indicate that I wished him to continue. He suddenly became quite pensive and said: “I then began to wonder who indeed it might be. This was a master criminal. Was it this man Morrison, who had disappeared in England and had professed such interest in Katmandu? His name meant nothing to me, and the little that I knew so far—a businessman with dealings in Holland and the Dutch colonies—told me nothing. Yet, it is my calling to know what others do not. Could such a person
be unknown to me?”

  He grew silent again. I could see the intense struggle for comprehension that must have covered his face as he sat in that old lodge in Katmandu.

  “I stared at Hodgson’s words in that old tome, Watson, the smell of fifty years of Asiatic mould filling my nostrils. I sat foraging through my memory, checking every similarity, every detail that I knew or could infer as probable, against the activities of thousands of criminals. What I had experienced so far was uniquely singular. I then turned the question around and asked it in a most general way: If I were to ascribe the aforementioned criminal activities to any one person, living or dead, who would it be? I could arrive at only one answer to that question, and it was very disturbing.”

  Holmes paused, waiting for me to give the inevitable answer: “Moriarty himself !” I ejaculated.

  “Good, Watson, good, but not quite good enough. That Moriarty was capable of the grand intrigue that I had uncovered in Nepal was indubitable. But it was also certain that he was dead. There was no possibility of his having returned from the Reichenbach Falls. No, Moriarty’s bones were by now bare and chalk-white at the bottom of that awful abyss.”

  “Who, then?” I asked anxiously. “Perhaps one of his lieutenants, some of whom approached him in ability? Colonel Moran, perhaps?”

  “Someone who had the potential for just as great if not greater evil. Not one of his close associates qualified, not even Moran. And, equally important, not one of them was present in Katmandu, as far as I knew. The criminals whom I knew to be there and recognised would be of the greatest use to a master criminal, but not one of them could have been described as such. No, Watson, I began to think of a very different person.”

  Here he paused for several moments. Then he began anew.

  “I have often spoken to you of my brother, Mycroft, and how he possesses to an even greater degree than I the abilities of observation and deduction that I have inherited. In the same way, Watson, there is, or was, one person, capable of more intelligent evil than Professor Moriarty: his brother James. This conclusion came to me as I sat in Gorashar’s study. You will recall, Watson, that James Moriarty wrote a defence of his brother in which he alleged that I had fabricated the whole case against him, that he was the innocent victim of the hallucinatory ravings of Sherlock Holmes?”

  “Indeed, I do remember, and it was in your defence that I broke my silence and described the events as they were known to me until that time.”

  “Until this point, I knew only of James Moriarty’s existence, for he had engaged in no criminal activities and had had little contact with his more academic brother. What had put him on his present path I did not know, but I was certain that he was my adversary. This belief was confirmed by the fortunate arrival of Mycroft’s response to my message, which I deciphered at once. It read:

  My Dear Sherlock:

  My apologies. It took me a bit longer than I thought to locate a copy of Jorgensen’s lexicon of the language of the Kusunda, but once I did, decipherment was easy and your message quite clear. In answer to your question, Hodgson is still alive, though very old. He was too weak to converse at length, but he confirmed the fact that he had taken a Nepalese mistress in Katmandu, and that she had died many years ago. This fact is known to several members of his family. There were two children from this liaison, whom he sent to his sister to raise and to school in Amsterdam. The children did not survive, for they were lost at sea off the cost of Ireland. Your other suspicions are quite correct. Richardson’s wife is in the clutches of one James Morrison, who has become her lover. Of the greatest import to you is the fact that in reality he is James Moriarty, the brother of your deceased nemesis. How he has recently been converted to criminal behaviour is most interesting, and I shall relate it to you when we meet. In the meantime, exercise extreme caution, for his whereabouts at present are unknown. I cannot trace him beyond a berth on the H.M.S. Prince of Wales, bound for Sydney, but stopping in Calcutta, which means of course that he may not be far away and indeed may be looking for you.

  Mycroft

  “I looked forward to meeting with Mycroft some day and hearing from him how he thought Morrison had become a criminal. But perhaps Mycroft’s explanations were unnecessary.

  “And here, my dear Watson, permit me a brief digression, for what I say to you now occurred to me at that very moment as I put the match to Mycroft’s message. Perhaps, Watson, good and evil are no more than natural properties, woven into our racial structure, indifferent in themselves, like the colour of one’s eyes or the size of one’s nose. They may be indifferently combined with other traits. Some extraneous factor, perhaps a harsh experience, perhaps a chance meeting that enlivens one of these traits rather than the other, becomes the sufficient cause to determine a man’s nature. Randomly created with a preponderance of good or evil, men become natural adversaries when these qualities are combined with intellect and will. It is then their intellect that identifies them to each other as mortal enemies, and the will that immediately opposes them. More than that is unclear to me, but my own experience supports what I have just said as a working hypothesis, one that I shall explore in retirement should that time ever come.

  “In any case, I had now identified my implacable adversary and had to assume that he might have somehow identified me. The final meeting was inevitable, the circumstances under which it would take place still unknown, and its outcome, whatever it might be, something that I faced by now with a certain equanimity.”

  I listened with rapt attention as my friend related to me these latest revelations. His theory of good and evil natures led me to pose a question: “Surely, Holmes, the inheritance of such traits as good and evil and the like mean very little unless the sum of inherited traits is known. You have often remarked that Mycroft’s abilities of observation and deduction surpass even yours, and yet, as you have also noted, Mycroft’s lack of energy prohibited him from any practical results in the field of crime detection. Surely, James Moriarty must have differed in some way from his brother, the evil professor, that would have aided you in apprehending him.”

  Holmes smiled. “You are quite correct, Watson, and I thank you for your words of wisdom. Indeed, Moriarty frère had a severe fault. He had a violent and cruel temper that impelled him on to action that he would not have taken had his reason maintained control. The sudden and uncontrolled anger toward Rizzetti and the beating of Mrs. Richardson were two examples of this. I learned of a third that very day upon my return to the Residence. I had decided that, rather than let matters run their course, I would confront Daniel Wright and ask to be taken to Moriarty, alias Morrison. When I entered the Residence compound, I learned that Lucy Richardson had gone out for the afternoon, hoping to learn word of her father, and that Wright was in his study and would see no one. After the guard left, I decided to enter his office unannounced.

  “‘Wright was there, but he was dead. He had been stabbed in the same way that the foul Rizzetti had been. There were signs of a struggle everywhere. Uncontrollable anger at the Resident’s escape had led Moriarty to kill his chief ally.”

  Holmes examined the dead man and his clothing carefully. His private papers indicated that his real name was Saunders, that he had served in the Indian army as a medical orderly, but that he had been discharged for violent acts against his men as well as financial improprieties. He evidently had been hired by Moriarty after his arrival in India, probably in Calcutta, where Saunders had been living the life of a vagrant after his discharge.

  Nothing among Saunders’s effects revealed Moriarty’s whereabouts. Holmes examined the contents of his medical bag closely. His search revealed a number of almost empty vials. They contained the minute remains of a number of poisons, some of which where locally prepared and of the greatest potency. Some of these Saunders had obviously fed to Richardson, in small doses but sufficient to cause great pain, intense fever, and physical deterioration. Doubtlessly, they had been prepared by Rizzetti before his death.

&n
bsp; “There was nothing else, except a rather odd passage written on a piece of paper on Saunders’s desk. It appeared to be written in Saunders’s own hand. It resembled a passage from the chronicle that the pandits were translating. It read: “And there shall be great bursts of thunder and light, vast explosions in the night, and a crazed Brahman shall kill an untouchable. And Kalanki shall ride into the city on a white horse. And the people shall rejoice in their new God, for he will reveal himself as the new Vishnu and their new king.”

  Holmes summoned the two pandits and asked them to take charge of Saunders’s body. They were to notify the Nepalese government of the recent events in the Residence. I asked them about the words on Saunders’s desk and they confirmed the fact that they were part of the prophetic passages from the ancient chronicle. Saunders, alias Wright, had been particularly interested in the prophetic passages in the book, but they did not know why. I then took it upon myself to notify Lord Dufferin, the Viceroy, in Calcutta of the recent events. This I did using the wireless in the Residence.

  “My hope of being taken to Moriarty had failed, and I now, alone and unaided, faced the monumental task of finding him, probably lurking in a subterranean lair somewhere beneath the streets and alleys of Katmandu. Saunders was the only one I knew who might have led me to him. I could not mount a search alone in such a labyrinth, for once I entered it I would in all likelihood never come out alive. No, I had to know beforehand where the minotaur had his lair and I had to lure him out.”