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

by Ted Riccardi

  Except for a guard, the entire group appeared to be asleep. Smith, his wife, and Mukherjee were huddled together on the ground, not far from the fire, their hands and feet tied. The dacoits lay asleep everywhere. There were several tents, in one of which Furer presumably slept, and another in which the head of the dacoits, Gagan Singh, was also unaware of what was taking place.

  I decided then on a dramatic but rather reckless move. I walked directly over to the guard and told him in Hindustanee to take me to Furer. So startled was he and so frightened by the sudden appearance of a tall, gaunt Englishman in the middle of the jungle, that rather than give the alarm, he simply led me over to Furer’s tent. Furer was asleep, a rifle beside him. I pulled the rifle away and he was instantly awake, but it was too late. I pointed the gun at his head.

  “Move ever so slowly, Furer. Quietly, not a word.” He did as he was told. I must say, Watson, that rarely in my career has anyone’s face showed the disbelief and fear that Furer’s displayed when he recognised me as I held the rifle to his left temple. I could see that though he shivered with fear, he watched carefully for the slightest hesitation on my part. I motioned him to untie his prisoners, which he did with great despatch. I indicated to the frightened Smiths and Mukherjee to follow Bala Ram. We walked past our men into safety. Furer had turned white, as if he had seen a ghost.

  It was at this point that things took an unexpected turn. Furer, overcome with fear and knowing that he had been outwitted, turned and bolted back into the camp, screaming to his men that they should awake and fight. But the warning came too late. Unwilling to let them escape, Jang Bahadur and his men took full advantage of their position. What followed was an inevitable massacre. The entire gang of thieves and murderers was wiped out as they rose from their beds. They had no chance whatsoever.

  Leaving the Smiths and Mukherjee with an escort, I rushed back into the chaotic scene. By the time I arrived, it was all over. No one had escaped. In the early-morning light, the grisly picture was clear. Twenty-four dacoits, including Gagan Singh, and three European henchmen of Furer lay dead. A fourth, severely wounded but alive, was the only survivor and was to be taken for questioning.

  To my great consternation, however, Furer had escaped. His body was nowhere to be found. He had evidently been able to take advantage of the brief moment given him before the firing began to plunge alone into the jungle. Whether he crouched nearby or was still running aimlessly in the wild, we had no idea.

  I decided to let fate take its course. We made no attempt ourselves to locate him. A message was sent to both the Indian and Nepalese authorities to be on the lookout for him, but he had made good his escape.

  We camped that night in the safety of the police camp near Simraongarh, and the following day arrived at the Indian border, where I bade good-bye to Bala Ram and Jang Bahadur, and left with the Smiths and Mukherjee for Delhi. It was on this train ride that I learned from Vincent Smith the details of his ordeal. Threatened with torture constantly, he had, however, managed to lead Furer astray until by accident they came to the stupa that housed what Furer had been looking for: the casket of Kanishka.

  “You may imagine my consternation, Mr. Holmes, when I saw this most valuable treasure of ancient India fall into his hands. He gloated over it constantly until the uncomfortable moment came for me when he realised that he no longer needed me. He cruelly discussed a variety of ways of despatching me, including leaving me in a wounded condition for the wild animals to devour. Only the capture of my wife and Mukherjee distracted him long enough to avoid my execution. He then sent one of his henchmen, Aubert, off with the casket. It is lost to us now, but someday I hope that we find it.”

  “Of this, I have little doubt,” said Holmes, “though it may take time. You may be sure that Bala Ram and Jang Bahadur will do all they can to trace it and to return it, perhaps for safekeeping in London.”

  My sojourn in Delhi was short, and it was only just before I was to leave for Rajasthan that Smith informed me of the latest concerning Furer. He had been spotted moving towards Katmandu, but had disappeared once again. The Nepalese authorities had been notified, but no reply had been received from them. Furer had again outwitted all who had tried to apprehend him.

  “And so, Watson, we come to the end of my account of the events in India that led to the apprehension of Furer here in London many years later.”

  “A most incredible tale, Holmes. And how did you know that the Buddha contained the casket? And why were there two Buddhas?”

  Holmes laughed. “There were more than two. But I leave the answers to these questions to you, my dear Watson. It was all a very simple matter of deduction. Come, it is late, and I have talked enough. If we hurry, we can still enjoy an ale before we return home.”

  And so we walked quickly to Holmes’s favourite pub near the British Museum and forgot about Anton Furer.

  THE CASE OF THE FRENCH SAVANT

  I HAVE WRITTEN, PARTICULARLY IN THE CASE CONCERNING the Greek interpreter, of Sherlock Holmes’s extreme reticence with regard to his early life and family. He rarely spoke of his relations, and it was only after I had known him for several years that I learned, quite incidentally after tea one summer evening, of the existence of Mycroft, a brother seven years his senior. On that very same occasion, he revealed to me that the majority of his ancestors were country squires who led lives appropriate to that station in life, but that his maternal grandmother was a sister of the celebrated French artist Vernet. In this way he descended from that well-known French family of painters, and it was to this Gallic portion of his lineage that he attributed his analytic powers and his not inconsiderable musical talents.

  I had no knowledge, however, until one afternoon in late March, 1895, that Holmes shared to some degree in the painterly attainments of his French ancestors. A tiring day with several difficult patients had convinced me to leave my practise early, and I arrived at our quarters at around four o’clock. Holmes was not at home, and I found myself alone. A great weariness overcame me as soon as I entered, and I sank immediately into my easy chair. I was about to doze off when I noticed a large portfolio placed atop the papers on my desk. I slowly pulled myself back from the torpor that threatened to envelop me, and stretching over with the little energy I had left, I took the portfolio and placed it in my lap. A note was attached in Holmes’s hand:

  Dear Watson,

  I thought I would allow you to peruse these sketches before I consign them to the fire. As honest reproductions of their subjects, they are not without merit, but they lack the necessary artistic inspiration. They were done while I was abroad and record a number of places in the Orient. For that reason they may be of interest to you.

  I am nearing the end of a particularly tiring case, the dénouement of which should occur around six this evening. It is a case that I predict you will one day entitle “The Case of the One-Armed Wife” should you choose to add it to your chronicles. Lestrade and the Baker Street Irregulars are on hand should I find myself in need of assistance. If all goes to plan, expect to see me by eight when I hope we shall have supper together. I shall be famished and should like nothing better than to spend a quiet evening with you by the fire.

  Holmes

  I opened the portfolio thinking that I would concur readily in his judgement of the drawings. A quick look, however, revealed that he was no ordinary draughtsman, and that, as in so many things, he had a keen eye and a steady hand. All of the sketches were in pencil, most in black and white, some in colour, on what looked to be a kind of rice paper, thin and most delicate, of different sizes and quality. All bore short titles in Holmes’s hand, with the date of execution and the initials “S. H.” in the lower right-hand corner. I saw at once that they formed a visual record of his wanderings in Asia, an irreplaceable supplement to the accounts of his adventures with which he had reluctantly provided me from time to time after his return.

  One of the drawings in particular caught my eye. It was one of the larger pastels, do
ne in subtle hues of rose, gold, soft blue, and green. I studied it for a few moments. The subject was the façade of a large pagoda temple with golden roofs, and built of what appeared to be rose-colored brick. It was heavily adorned with sculpture that I judged to be in both metal and wood. At the entrance was a series of steps, at the top of which on either side sat a lion, presumably guardians to the entrance. Above the door was a tympanum filled with a profusion of mythological figures, all exquisitely draughted by Holmes. To the left of the entrance stood what appeared to be a large pillar, presumably of stone, with an inscription carved on its surface. So delicately and precisely had Holmes drawn the ancient characters that anyone skilled in the script could have read it straight off the drawing. At the top of the pillar rested a golden disc. From its center a beam of sunlight shone forth and appeared to be reflected to some unknown point to the right hidden from the observer. At the foot of the stairs a large kneeling figure with wings on its back, half man, half bird, could be seen. To its right at the bottom was Holmes’s inscription: “Changu, 1892.”

  What transpired that evening with regard to the drawings is after so many years still rather painful to my memory, for Holmes was true to his word about consigning them to the fire. He returned as he had promised, promptly at eight, fatigued but obviously elated by his latest success.

  “A cruel and evil wretch is now behind bars, Watson,” he exclaimed, “and if justice is done in the courts, he will remain there, perhaps forever.”

  He washed quickly, and we sat down to the simple supper Mrs. Hudson had prepared. We then sat by the fire, where Holmes gave me a brief account of his activities of the day. Lighting his pipe, he then asked, “Where are the sketches?”

  “Here,” I answered, as I pulled them up from alongside my chair. “They are fine drawings, Holmes, unexpectedly good since I had no knowledge of your achievements in this regard. They show a remarkable—”

  “My blushes, Watson,” he said interrupting me. “Your judgement is no doubt sincere, but I do not share it. You may choose one, however, for your own to keep as part of your historical record.”

  I pleaded in vain with him to let me keep them all, but he insisted that they be destroyed save for the one that I would choose. I looked through them quickly again, and chose the one marked “Changu.”

  “I shall keep this one,” I said.

  Holmes took the portfolio and, removing the sketches, threw them into the fireplace. I felt my eyes mist over as I watched the rice paper curl black, the flames quickly turning it to ash.

  “At least tell me something about the remaining one,” I said grimly, as I handed it over to him.

  “You have chosen well, Watson, if I say so myself. It is indeed probably the best of the lot. Less stiff than the others, and the detail is quite clear,” he remarked clinically.

  “The temple is of course that which is known as Changu Narayan,” he continued. “It lies a few miles north and east of Katmandu in Nepal, atop a hill. It has rarely been visited by Europeans. Your choice has historical significance as well, since the temple was damaged by an earthquake after I executed the drawing. This may be as accurate a portrait of it as we shall have. There is also a tale concerning it which you may want to add to your Oriental chronicles.”

  His pipe refused to light and, putting it down to rest, he smiled, knowing full well my interest in everything that he had done while abroad.

  “You owe me at least that, Holmes, after destroying the sketches.”

  “My humble apologies, my dear Watson. I had no intention of causing you undue pain. In any case, the incidents occurred shortly after the banishment of Hodgson’s ghost from Katmandu.”

  I watched him closely and saw the by now familiar pattern as he readied himself for his narration, the gleam in his eyes, the hands brought together at the tips in front of his face, and the slight pause as he ordered the events through which he had lived.

  “For a time, I continued to live in Nepal as Pandit Kaul of Kashmir. My disguise had begun to wear thin, however, after I aided the Maharajah, albeit indirectly, in rounding up and forcibly removing from Katmandu the remaining criminal elements that had been allowed to nest in his country over the previous decade. I took great satisfaction in this. Like stray wild dogs, these criminals were collected and taken in chains to the Indian border town of Raxaul, where they were released upon taking a solemn oath never to enter Nepal again upon pain of death. A new edict was then promulgated by the Maharajah, under which the number of foreign visitors permitted to enter was further limited, and almost entirely to those who had official business with the Government.”

  “Shortly after this, Mr. Richardson announced his departure with his daughter for England. Lucy had prevailed upon him to leave in order to regain his health, and she also hoped for a reconciliation between her parents, despite the gravity of their past difficulties. Once the Viceroy authorised the Resident’s leave, father and daughter left for Calcutta.”

  With no business pressing, said Holmes, he prepared his own departure. His next destination was to be Benares, followed then perhaps by Calcutta. He was slow to leave the comfort of Gorashar’s hotel and the beauty of the Katmandu Valley, however. It was already late April, and he had no great desire to experience the torrid heat of the Indian plains. Gorashar therefore easily prevailed upon him to stay a few weeks longer, at least until the advent of the cooling monsoon rains, since Gorashar wished to show him some of the artistic treasures of the Valley that he had not yet seen himself. Gorashar had been some nineteen years in Tibet and so long away from his own country that he felt the pressing need to make an extended pilgrimage to its chief shrines.

  Except for these visits to the countryside, Holmes’s own days were idle. He had only his edition of Petrarch with him, and the few libraries in Katmandu contained little of interest. He had exhausted Gorashar’s small shelf of books on Nepal. He continued to visit the pandits at the Residence, however, and it was they who suggested that on his tour with Gorashar he collect rubbings of the ancient Sanscrit inscriptions of the Valley. And so, Gorashar, and Holmes, still as Pandit Kaul, added long walks through the Valley to Balambu, Kisipidi, Dhapasi, and other ancient sites which had hitherto never come to historical notice.

  “I had no idea that you have any knowledge of Sanscrit,” I interrupted. “How truly foolish I feel now when I think of the remark in my earliest chronicle that your knowledge of languages was nil.”

  Holmes again took up his recalcitrant pipe and smiled as he placed it between his teeth. “You were quite right, Watson, when you made your assessment. At the time that we met, I did not know a word of Sanscrit, or any other foreign language for that matter. And as for Sanscrit, I no longer know it. Your use of the present tense, therefore, is inappropriate.”

  “But surely, Holmes, you cannot have forgotten it all,” I retorted.

  “It is hardly a matter of forgetting, Watson, for this implies a mental action uncontrolled by the will and reason. As you know, I am a brain. The rest of me is a mere appendix, and it is the brain that I must serve. And I must serve it well. It would be foolish, as I have often remarked in the past, to assume that the brain is a place of infinite space. A better image is of a small atelier, where the craftsman or artist keeps the tools necessary for the work at hand. The rest he must store in the recesses of the mind, ready for the instantaneous recall that necessity might demand. The dormant subjects thus are no longer known in the ordinary sense of the word, but reappear only when use is imminent. Sanscrit will have little if any use in the solving of crime in metropolitan London, and so it is stored safely with other Asiatic subjects in the remote instance that it need be resurrected. In the Orient, however, one would be foolish to attempt success in my line of endeavour without the language fresh for use, and so I cultivated it, until my travels took me to parts of the globe where it was totally unknown and therefore quite useless.”

  I was about to comment, but Holmes rose to his feet and began pacing back and f
orth, his hands together behind his back, a slight smile on his lips as he recalled the tale that he continued to narrate to me.

  One morning at dawn, Gorashar and he left for Changu Narayan, stopping first at Bhaktapur, an ancient town some nine miles from Katmandu which he had not previously visited. He found its preservation, in both its architectural and human aspects, most remarkable. It is a town, he observed, that preserves in precise detail a medieval way of life now lost in almost all parts of Europe. Gorashar arranged for them to spend the night there at the house of a close relative, a Taladhar merchant. The following morning, again at dawn, they began the walk from Bhaktapur to Changu.

  The temple lies at the end of a long ridge that begins north of Bhaktapur. Holmes found it a pleasant walk, and they reached the temple at around eight. Gorashar spoke almost constantly as they walked, telling Holmes in detail what he knew of its history.

  “Here we shall see the oldest inscription in Nepal, one that has not been read fully as yet,” he said. “It is perhaps fifteen hundred years old and records the mysterious death of one of our illustrious kings, a great and religious man by the name of Dharmadeva.”

  Dharmadeva died quite suddenly, according to Gorashar, and no one knows how or why, but it is still believed by some that he was killed by his wife and son, Manadeva, who immediately succeeded him to the throne. His wife was said to have arranged the murder with the aid of the king’s brother. But the full truth was not known.

  “As Gorashar spoke, Watson,” said Holmes, “I of course became most interested, since I now had before me a possible murder, a royal one, that had not been resolved for fifteen hundred years. Perhaps, I thought, I should solve it.”