by Ted Riccardi
“Try it on, Watson,” he said, dropping it into my left hand. “It is a rare opportunity to share the experience of a king of antiquity.”
Holmes continued to examine the box. He had removed the jewellery and now stood holding the box to the light, then to his ear. I saw him press with great force on its left side. There was a sudden noise, like the release of a spring, and I heard him utter a short cry of delight.
“Aha! Watson, there is more. Look, a false bottom. A rather interesting spring device that has released it. Let us see what else there is.”
Holmes lifted the false bottom out of the box and placed it with the jewellery on the table. There was revealed a small cloth bag, made of the same brocade that had covered the box, and what appeared to be a small scroll made of a material that I could not immediately identify. Holmes unfurled the scroll, upon which there were some ancient characters.
“Birch bark,” he said, “one of the most ancient writing materials. And a short inscription in the ancient Prakrit. Let us see if we can read it.” Holmes held his glass to the scroll, concentrated deeply for a few moments, and then said:
“Write this down, Watson, for I can read almost all of it: ‘The jewels of Kanishka are nothing compared to this, this lock of hair of the Buddha Shakyamuni, the Enlightened One.’ So, we now know what the bag contains: a true relic of the Buddha himself, perhaps taken at the time of his enlightenment, or perhaps at his death. It is not for us to know, Watson. I suggest that unbelieving infidels such as we not open the bag, that that be done by others closer to the ancient forms of belief than we are.”
He placed the bag and the scroll back in the reliquary and restored the false bottom to its original place. “It is growing late,” he said. “Perhaps, we should dine, and over a good cigar and a brandy I shall tell you how all of this came about.”
“And so, Watson, Furer is finally where he belongs—in the hands of the authorities, and his long criminal career is finally at an end.”
I watched him as he lit his cigar, relaxing in his favourite chair. His eyes were bright, and he could scarcely contain his pleasure.
“I appreciate your elation at the outcome, my dear Holmes, but certain portions of the affair continue to elude me. How did you know that Furer would fall so easily into your hands? And how did you know what was hidden in the second statue? How, indeed, did you know that anything at all was contained in it?”
Holmes heard the slight irritation in my voice which I had taken pains to conceal, unsuccessfully however, for I was still smarting from my failure to see through his disguise and that of Gregson. His tone of voice became even more self-satisfied, and I felt as if salt were being poured on my wounds.
“As to your first question, Watson, it is simplicity itself. One must know one’s criminals. That is all. Furer was a thief, to be sure, but he had a well-developed aesthetic sense, a sense of symmetry, shall we say, that in the end was his undoing. He walked into our quarters as I walked into his camp in the Tarai several years ago. He also possessed throughout his career a deep sense of invincibility that on occasions past had led him to risk his life foolishly. I knew therefore that he would want to close the circle with me, so to speak. And he did, to his final defeat, I’m afraid. As to the other questions, well, my dear friend, knowing my own remarkable powers of deduction, I venture to say that I would have quickly deduced the fact that one of the statues contained something unusual from the circumstances of the case alone. In this instance, however, I actually knew it. Indeed, I had been expecting its arrival, though the exact time and place were unknown to me. As Ridlington spoke, I realised that the first statue was a decoy, put there by one of Furer’s own henchman to outwit him. Once the good colonel had told his story, I saw how the matter would end, even to the last detail. The visit to Gloucestershire merely corroborated my hypothesis and permitted me to take possession of the second statue, the one that Furer was so determined to get his hands on. Still, you find the entire case puzzling, Watson, simply because you lack the beginning.”
Drawing in his breath, Holmes suddenly stood up and said: “Watson, it is a beautiful June evening. It will be light for several more hours. Let us stroll towards Green Park, and I shall relate to you the most interesting part of the Furer case.”
The evening was as beautiful as London can provide. The streets were filled with men and women strolling happily, some arm in arm, some walking their dogs, with children playing summer games, and the other happy sounds of a people at peace. It was only when we drew near the park that the crowds abated, and Holmes continued.
“The story begins at a most unusual point. It commences just after the affair concerning Reginald Maxwell.”
“You mean that this story begins when you were in India?” I asked.
“Indeed, it does, Watson. You will recall that while I travelled in India, I had assumed the name of Roger Lloyd-Smith?”
“Indeed, I do,” I replied.
“After the Maxwell affair, I continued to use that name and identity. It was convenient and, above all, believable. I bade good-bye to the Viceroy, and continued my journey. I travelled west by train. My intention was to spend some months in India before I entered the mountains of Afghanistan.
“My first stop after Calcutta was the obvious one: Benares once again, the holiest city of the Hindoos. The ride on the Toofan Express from Calcutta was uneventful, and as I recall, I lodged at the Clarks Hotel, one of the more comfortable establishments in our Indian possessions. I decided that what I needed was a moment of tranquillity after the adventures in Bengal, and so I stayed close to the hotel, venturing forth only in the evening. I spent much time recording the events that had befallen me during the last several months. I spoke to no one except the hotel staff, who were efficient and unobtrusive. The air was cool enough in the evening, and I sat on the wide veranda until dark, when the mosquitoes finally became unbearable.
“On the third night, I wandered on foot into the city. Like all cities of India, it has those nocturnal characteristics that give it a sense of mystery: darkness, the human voice disembodied, the shuffling of countless naked feet, the barking of dogs, the shrieks of jackals and hyenas. But it is still in essence a village, lacking in the metropolitan aspect. It is, after all, a religious centre, one the most revered sites of Hindooism and one of the most ancient cities of the world. I wandered through Godowlia, the town centre. From there I went to the Ganges, to the Dasashvamedha Ghat, one of the major bathing places. It is here, Watson, that the pious Hindoo plans to arrive at his last moment, knowing that to leave this mortal coil here is to guarantee his eternal salvation and liberation from this vale of tears, or Samsara, as they call it in the Sanscrit tongue.”
“As you are well aware, Watson, I am not a religious person, and after a few days my interest in the bizarre religiosity of Benares began to wane. When I returned to the hotel, after my third night of exploration, I decided to move on. My decision to leave, however, was postponed suddenly by the events that began to transpire the following morning.
“I rose early and decided to breakfast not at Clarks but at the Hotel de Paris, an establishment strangely named, considering its location just across the main cantonment road. It was a most pleasant building, however, and its front gardens were filled with bougainvillea and jacaranda flowers, bathed in the soft morning sunlight.
“As I entered, I noticed a man and a woman, the woman English, the man Indian, seated in a corner of the veranda, engaged in what appeared to be a deep and most serious conversation. The man I judged to be about forty years of age. He was well dressed and, judging from his carriage, of a distinguished Hindoo background. By his build and accent I judged him to be Bengalese. The woman was somewhat younger and rather frail-looking.
“As I observed them, the woman suddenly rose, as if in anger, and strode into the hotel. The man appeared surprised at her action but did not attempt to follow. He rose slowly, his surprise having retreated into sadness, and left.
; “I went directly to the breakfast room. It was shortly after the bearer had brought my tea that the woman entered and took her seat at a table near mine. I could observe her closely without seeming rude or intrusive. I deduced much from her appearance. She was a youngish woman, in her early thirties perhaps, aristocratic in her bearing, married, most probably to one of our government officers, and was someone who was experienced in India, since she spoke Hindustani to the bearer, and it was decent enough. The deference and familiarity with which she was treated indicated that she was a person of some importance and that she had been in the hotel for several days. That she was under some great strain showed in her face, which contained an expression of great sadness and fear. She occasionally wiped a tear from her eye, and I noticed that she scarcely ate any of the food that she ordered. She fingered her wedding ring constantly, and looked repeatedly out the window towards the entrance to the garden, as if she hoped to see someone appear.
“It was quite late by now, almost nine thirty in the morning, and there was no one in the dining room save the turbaned bearers who stood guard, ready to serve our smallest want.
“I decided to approach this woman and learn the cause of her grief. I quickly penned a note to her on one of my calling cards, and handed it to one of the bearers for delivery:
Please forgive my intrusion into your private thoughts, but I could not help but notice that you are under a great strain concerning the whereabouts of your husband. Perhaps we might talk on the veranda over another cup of tea before the sun gets any higher. I may be of some help to you in finding him.
“She was at first startled by my note, almost angered by it, and I could see in her eyes the suspicion that I had something to do with his disappearance. For how else could I know that he had disappeared? Suddenly her face became impassive, almost grim. She looked up, rose, and nodded to me. I asked the bearer to bring tea to us outside.”
“You appear to be a complete stranger to me,” she said. “And yet you know something about my husband’s disappearance. You therefore must be part of the plot against him. Tell me where he is. I implore you.”
There was a desperate look in her eyes as she spoke. Holmes had reasoned correctly.
“You are right. We have never laid eyes on each other, Madam, but I can assure you that I do not know where your husband is. I do not even know his name. What I know was merely based on what I observed.”
“Observed?” she said sardonically.
“Surely it takes no great talent to observe a woman fingering her wedding ring in great agitation and looking towards the entrance to the hotel for someone to appear to deduce that that someone might be her husband, that he has not come, and that his failure to arrive has caused great consternation in his wife. The staff appears to know you well, and so I reason that you have been waiting for many days. Your fear is now that something dreadful has happened to him,” said Holmes.
“You are very clever for a chemist,” she said.
“I have had other occupations in the past. Perhaps, Madam, I may gain your confidence by showing you this.”
It was a note of thanks and warm praise from the Viceroy for Holmes’s help in a minor affair in Patna. It also disclosed his true identity.
“I can assure you, Madam, that you may speak to me in all confidence and that I have no interest other than seeing your husband restored to you. In showing you that note I have deliberately taken the risk of allowing you to know my true identity, which, I trust, will remain with you and you alone.”
She smiled wanly. “For the first time in many weeks I feel as though there is some hope that I may find Vincent.”
“Please tell me everything from the very beginning,” said Holmes.
“I have been in India with my husband for six years. We have lived in Calcutta and most recently in Delhi. My husband is Vincent Smith, director general of the Archaeological Survey of India. Our years here, until recently, have been very peaceful and filled with satisfaction, for I share my husband’s interests in historical matters. Unlike many of our countrymen who come here, we have not been separated by my husband’s work. He has shared his enthusiasms and discoveries fully with me, and I have tried in my small way to aid him to the limits of my abilities.”
“Your husband’s writings are well known to me,” said Holmes. “Pray, continue.”
“As you may know, my husband has dedicated his life to the reconstruction of Indian history and to the preservation of India’s monuments. He is working on a volume on the early history of the Subcontinent that I venture to say will become the standard work on the subject for many years to come. Vincent had worked through much of the earliest history but felt that there were very real gaps in the history of the Buddhist religion. He became intent therefore in expanding the investigations of the Survey into the Nepalese Tarai, where, hidden in its jungle confines, he believed lie the archaeological ruins that will provide the answers to many historical problems. More than at any time in his career, I found him to be almost obsessed with the history of early Buddhism. He thought about and talked about nothing else.
“It was when he was in this rather delicate frame of mind that there appeared one day at the Survey an Englishman, recently arrived in India, who claimed to be a trained archaeologist looking for work as one of the Survey’s field investigators. He displayed excellent credentials, and even though he was not previously known to anyone at the Survey, he was immediately hired. He said that he had recently worked in Hanoi with the French, and after a stay in Hong Kong he had decided to ply his trade in India. He had excellent references as well, for the French scholars appeared to have written for him effusively. He had an encyclopedic knowledge of antiquities. He claimed a great deal of knowledge concerning the geography of northern Bihar and the Nepalese Tarai, of which he claimed to have made special studies. This latter fact brought him immediately to the attention of my husband, who after a brief interview hired him on the spot.
“His name was Anthony Fordham. To me from the beginning this man was an evil presence, a handsome, smooth, oily gentleman, who I felt in my bones could not be trusted. But he immediately gained my husband’s confidence, and the two became almost inseparable. Their talk was constant, and Vincent took to inviting him home to dinner on a regular basis. I was most uncomfortable with this new friendship, for on the few short occasions on which I was left alone with him, Fordham looked at me so voraciously that I felt compelled to leave the room.
“Vincent refused to hear my doubts, berated me for my fears of Fordham, and thought my suspicions and worries unfounded. For the first time, I became isolated from my husband and felt myself replaced somewhat in his attention. The more I saw of Fordham the more I felt that he could not be trusted.
“It was with a sense of relief, therefore, that I learned that Vincent had decided to send Fordham to the Tarai for a preliminary survey of Buddhist monuments. Permission for the expedition had come from the Nepalese rulers after a long interval, and Fordham left with a single assistant, this now about three months ago. He refused a large party of workers from the Survey, saying that he would be best served by workers hired and trained on the spot.
“A month later, Vincent reported elatedly to me that Fordham had made major discoveries, including ruins that pre-dated the historical Buddha, a rather sensational discovery in itself. Fordham’s drawings and diagrammes were quite detailed, and considering the report a major addition to our knowledge of Indian antiquity, Vincent scheduled it for immediate publication without review.
“Six weeks ago Vincent returned home in a state of utter dejection. He said that Fordham’s report had just arrived from the printer’s and was about to be distributed when he noticed some odd inconsistencies in its presentation. In consultation with his chief assistant, Mukherjee, it was decided that Fordham had either made some major errors, or had perpetrated a colossal hoax. He had decided to delay publication of the report until an on-site investigation could be made. Fordham had failed to respond
to any of his messages and could not be reached. Only Mukherjee was aware of the problem, and in order to avoid his own embarrassment as well as that for the Government as a whole, Vincent had decided that he had best make a field investigation himself.
“Mukherjee went ahead. He wired a few days later from Patna that the sites visited by Fordham had been systematically looted by him and a gang of henchmen, that the sites had been destroyed for archaeological purposes, and that Fordham had disappeared and probably had left India with whatever booty he was able to remove from the ruins. This confirmed my husband’s worst fears. He still felt compelled to go to the site himself, even though his sense of betrayal was acute.
“Two weeks ago, he departed, leaving Mukherjee in charge of the Survey, and, on the pretext that he wanted a few weeks to write up his own archaeological notes, left for the Nepalese Tarai. He promised to wire me as soon as he arrived. But after his departure, I received no word. After ten days of silence, I decided then to follow him. Mukherjee accompanied me this far, and has implored me to go no further, for he deemed the natural dangers of the Tarai alone sufficient to deter anyone. He said that he would notify the Government of what had happened and would send a party of police and sepoys after my husband, but I have steadfastly refused to allow this. My husband wanted to avoid the Fordham affair’s becoming public knowledge at all costs. And so I find myself in the unenviable position of going to the Tarai jungles alone in search of my husband. It was Mukherjee whom you may have seen yesterday with me in the garden. He is still trying to stop me, but I wish to leave for Patna this afternoon. From there I shall go to the Tarai.”
Towards the end of her description, Holmes could see the fear that gripped her soul emerge on her face.
“I do not think that a venture into the Tarai is a wise one, Madam. The natural dangers of the Himalayan marsh alone should indeed give you pause,” said Holmes. “And I should be derelict if I were to allow you to continue to believe that your husband may be in the hands of a mere archaeological charlatan. He may be in the hands of an archcriminal who is most dangerous. The man who calls himself Anthony Fordham is in reality Anton Furer, a thief and plunderer who continues to devastate the archaeological and museum worlds for his own purposes. The false name Fordham is one that he has used on several occasions in the past. I am fully aware of his activities in Hanoi and Hong Kong. The letters from French scholars are forgeries, of course. The French Sûreté has put out a world wide alert for his capture. It is unfortunate that word appears not to have arrived in India.’”