Sherlock Holmes and the Seven Deadly Sins Murders

by Barry Day

  My first thought was that my cabby had misunderstood my instructions and had thought I meant him to keep me company, until I decided to ride again.

  As I turned to speak to him, I noticed that the driver was a different one from the one I had paid off a short time ago. In fact, the vehicle was not a London cab at all but a smaller carriage with an insignia on its door that was unfamiliar to me.

  When he saw me turn in his direction, the driver increased his horse’s pace to draw level with me. He was certainly no ordinary cabbie, for his complexion was dark to the point of being swarthy. It was the kind of face I had seen more often than I cared to remember on the northern front.

  Suddenly, the carriage door swung open and a green-gloved hand beckoned to me.

  “Please come in, Doctor Watson, I need to speak to you most urgently. I assure you that you will be perfectly safe.”

  A moment later I was seated inside the carriage staring into the haunted eyes of the Emerald Lady.

  The next few minutes were among the most unusual I think I have ever spent in my life. It was as though I had stepped out of modern day London straight into the Arabian Nights. I know I’m mixing up my religions here, but you catch my drift.

  To begin with there was that perfume. It was more incense than ordinary perfume. Holmes mentioned it subsequently and he may very well be right—there seemed to be an ingredient in it that affected the senses. I had never been this close to the woman before but somehow she seemed to be out of focus—now closer, now further away. I had trouble concentrating on what she was saying and it was not simply her beauty that distracted me.

  For, indeed, she was very beautiful. The olive face was a perfect oval and the brown eyes as deep and dark as rock pools. Strange and wonderful beings seemed to dance and spin in their depths, inviting you to join them and yet somehow warning that one did so at one’s peril. For this woman was greatly troubled and her fear emanated from her.

  You may think me a foolish romantic, but she reminded me of nothing so much as Rider Haggard’s great creation, Ayesha—the immortal ‘She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed’, though I had no sense that there was evil in this woman. I felt no fear of her; merely an inexplicable desire to relieve her fear, if I could.

  Somehow she seemed to sense what was going through my mind and it was as though she was giving me time to adjust my thoughts. Finally, she spoke again.

  “Doctor Watson, I hope you will forgive this unseemly intrusion but I could think of no other way to communicate with you and Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I beg you to help me. My life is in danger and with it the lives of many of my people, should anything happen to me.

  “Even though I am nominally their leader, I am watched day and night. Today I managed to get away for a drive, saying that I needed some air and since Ayub …”—she motioned towards the driver sitting up in the front of the carriage—“is loyal to me, I am safe for the moment. And who knows—perhaps they believe that—

  I am in blood

  Stepp’d in so far, that, should I wade no more,

  Returning were as tedious as go o’er.”

  Seeing my shocked expression seemed to relieve her tension, for she burst into peals of girlish laughter.

  “You are shocked that I should know my Macbeth? But you English really are the most contradictory people! You give the world the most sublime thoughts and words and then you are surprised when we foreigners give them back to you! But again, I must apologise, Doctor, for I believe I malign you by calling you ‘English’ when, in reality, you are Scottish?”

  Then she behaved as coquettishly as any schoolgirl.

  “In which case, you should appreciate my quoting the ‘Scottish play.’”

  What a woman of contradictions this was. Nonetheless, the exchange seemed to have effected an intimacy between us, for she relaxed visibly, gave an instruction to the driver in some guttural tongue, and for the next quarter of an hour or so, we drove round and round the park as she told me her story.

  “As you will have surmised, Doctor, I do not come from your world. I was born in a small country squeezed into unrelenting terrain between the northern India border and Tibet. Perhaps because no one wanted it sufficiently, perhaps because my people have always defended their rocky fastness with the utmost ferocity, it has stayed independent and largely unknown.

  “If I say the name Zakhistan, I venture to suggest the place does not exactly leap to mind?”

  I had to admit that, though the name sounded vaguely familiar and I, as an old Indian Army man prided myself on having knocked around that part of the world pretty well, I couldn’t place it and I admitted as much.

  “Frankly, Doctor, that has been both the making and the breaking of my country. It is not of this world. It exists in a time warp of many centuries’ making.

  “The people are poor and superstitious. They pray to the God Kor, who they believe looks over them and has kept them from the invaders who, from time to time over the ages, have come, looked at those mighty cliffs and departed for easier conquests.”

  “Kor?” I said. “The name is unfamiliar to me, too.”

  “As, indeed, it should be, for—like so many of the heathen gods the world over—he is a figment of man’s imagination. I see that clearly now. But to my people Kor is all-powerful.

  “Legend has it that, aeons ago, in a time of great famine the God Kor descended from beyond the stars on the back of a giant silver eagle. Twined around him were two enormous snakes—cobras …”

  “The twin serpents!” I exclaimed.

  “Just so.”

  It was only then that I realised that the Emerald Lady was wearing long green silk gloves of the kind most Western women would reserve for formal evening wear. She now peeled one of them back and held out her arm for my inspection.

  Around her slender wrist was a golden bracelet, wrought to resemble the entwined snakes. Then I remembered how Holmes had detected its telltale imprint on the letter he had received.

  She turned her arm to reveal the underside of it. There, tattooed on the inside of her wrist, was a design of what were clearly two King Cobras facing in opposite directions, their fangs bared, ready to strike.

  “From that time on—so legend has it—the crops improved, there were no more raiders at our gates and our country found a degree of stability. All of this is recorded by the soothsayers and elders, who embellish the story at every turn.

  “Whatever may or may not have happened in those distant times, my people have continued to worship Kor to this day.”

  “And what happened to Kor—in the legend, I mean?”

  “He departed on his eagle, leaving his serpents behind to work his magic. He also left word—or so the elders would have it—that the serpents should be in the care of a High Priestess of their choosing.”

  “But how could a snake—or even a pair of snakes—do such a thing?”

  “Supposedly, on the day of his departure the God Kor ordered that every woman in the kingdom who had borne a girl child on that day bring the baby to him. The children were placed in the House of the Serpents for one hour. Kor ordained that his servants, the serpents, would ‘test’ the children by biting them. One of the children would not die. That child would then become the High Priestess and rule over the land.”

  “How fiendish!” I exlaimed. “And what happened?”

  “It was as Kor had prophesied. One baby survived and as High Priestess lived to a great age. Perhaps the serpents’ venom in her blood had something to do with it. I have no way of knowing. All I know is that the tradition has persisted to this day. When the High Priestess feels herself to be failing in health, she calls for the ceremony to be repeated. Thus, the successor is chosen and the tradition remains unbroken. Meanwhile, the Grand Vizier deals with the day to day running of the country.”

  A sudden thought occurred to me.

  “But what about the serpents? They are not immortal either.”

  “They, too, reproduce and from the nest the High Pri
estess—who may move among them with impunity—selects the two healthiest males. The succession must be ensured—just as it was written in the Book of Kor …”

  “The Book of Kor?”

  “It contains the teachings of the God Kor, written in his own hand and entrusted to the first High Priestess, as soon as she was of age. It contains the secrets of Life and Death and all Wisdom. It is to us as the Old Testament would be to you, were it written by God Himself.”

  “And where is this book?”

  She looked at me sadly and replaced her glove, seeming relieved only when the tattoo was concealed once more. Now she spoke in an even lower voice, as if afraid that she might be overheard even in such secluded circumstances.

  “It is because of the Book that we are here, Doctor. But let me tell you the rest of my story, for it is almost finished.

  “Some years ago the High Priestess, Ayala was taken ill and called for the Ceremony of Succession to take place. The girl babies were duly assembled, the ‘test’ took place and one was chosen …”

  “You were that child!”

  “I was that child, Doctor. That is what the tattoo signifies and it will be with me to my dying day. And if you were to look more closely at the design, you would see that what appear to be the eyes of the serpents are, in fact, the puncture marks made by the serpents themselves. They mark my immunity but they also seal my destiny.

  “But then a strange thing happened. Ayala—who was not as old as many of her predecessors—recovered her health. I was anointed but not yet needed to fulfill my destiny.

  “Then one day an even stranger thing happened. Ayala called a meeting of the elders and told them she had determined our country must learn more about this dangerous and changing world in which we lived. Even though we could keep ourselves apart, we heard disturbing stories from the few traders who crossed our borders. I was to be sent, accompanied by one of the elders—a devious man called Khali—to Europe to be educated in the ways of the great world outside. In due time I would bring that learning back to enrich the people who would by then be my subjects.”

  “Why, that’s amazing,” I could not help but exclaim. “How could that primitive woman have such foresight?” Then I realised the implied insult to my companion and stammered to a halt.

  It was as though the Emerald Lady read my innermost thoughts, for she reached across and put her tiny gloved hand on my arm.

  “It is my eternal good fortune that she did and I shall bless her name forever. Perhaps she had what you in your world would call a ‘woman’s intuition’. Is that not possible, Doctor? Oh, and Doctor …”

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Uma. I would consider it most pleasing, if you were to call me by it?”

  “And my name is John. I would be equally honoured.”

  And there, in that gently jogging conveyance, the High Priestess of the Serpents and a middle-aged ex-Army doctor formally shook hands. And if I’m honest, I held on to that delicate little hand longer than was strictly necessary.

  Finally, Uma sighed but it sounded to my ear to be a sigh of relief and contentment to have told her story so far.

  “Well, John,” she continued at last, “I came to Europe on my thirteenth birthday with my amah as chaperone and Khali as an attendant. Money was no problem for us, since Zakhistan is rich in precious stones, and in your world money can buy most things, as you know.

  “In consequence, I received my education at Roedean and then travelled for spells to Paris and Geneva to those bizarre institutions you call ‘finishing schools’. But that was of no concern, for to me everything was an education.

  “So for the last twelve years I have been one of you, as well as one of them.” She shifted her eyes to where the driver sat. “And for all of that time I have known that one day I must return to my country, whether I wanted to or not.”

  Suddenly she seemed to lose that splendid control and clutched my hand tightly. “And I do not—oh, John, how I do not!”

  “But, you see, when I was sent to learn your ways, I was also given a sacred mission to fulfil.”

  “Mission? What mission?”

  “I must find and return the Book of Kor.”

  “But I thought you said it was your Bible?”

  “So it is—but it has been taken from us and my people believe that no good will come to us until it is found. They blame drought, tempest, crop failure, any natural accident—even a sick child or a nagging wife—on its absence.”

  “Then how was it lost?”

  “Some years ago—long before I was born—an expedition of white men, hunters and scientists mostly, braved the pass and arrived one spring. They were the first white men in many centuries; certainly the first anyone then living had ever set eyes on. And since they brought many toys and magic—which I now know to be rifles and telescopes—they were considered a wonder. Many of these toys, though not the guns, they left behind as presents.

  “When they left, my people entertained them to a great feast and waved them farewell. But one of them had in his possession the Book of Kor. How he obtained it is not known to this day, for the holy serpents guard it. But somehow he did and substituted for it another book that looked much the same. It was only when the High Priestess came to consult it for some rare ritual that the substitution was discovered. Since we had no access to the outside world at that time, there the matter rested. But my people have never forgotten and have created for themselves a self-fulfilling prophecy of doom and disaster.”

  “Now you have discovered its whereabouts?” I asked excitedly. Things were beginning to come together. Wait until Holmes hears about this! Of course, the Book of Kor in the photograph?

  Her face suddenly seemed smaller and I could see the child who had been chosen within the woman she had become.

  “The tragedy is that we have and we have not. And yet at the same time we have released a great evil.”

  Her eyes caught mine and I sensed an inestimable power in their depths.

  “Let me explain what brings me here and why I have crossed your path and that of Mr. Holmes.

  “Some weeks ago Khali and I received a visit in Paris from one of my countrymen, an emissary from the High Priestess. He bore two messages from her. The first was to say that, now the Great God Kor was finally calling her to join him in Eternity, it was time for me to return to fulfil my destiny …”

  “And the second?”

  “She had received information which would of a certainty lead us to the Book That Was Lost. Some time earlier another white stranger—this one travelling alone—had arrived there, hoping to trade with my people. During his stay he was naturally told the story and shown certain artifacts the earlier party had left behind and many drawings of The Book of Kor. At this he became very excited and claimed that he knew who had the Book. Seeing that riches were there in plenty, he drove a hard bargain.

  “He and the High Priestess’s emissary were to seek me out in Paris and together we would reclaim the holy Book and bring it back home. There he would receive his due reward.

  “In due course, that is precisely what happened—or so it was intended. On his second visit the emissary brought this man with him and the man had a photograph that proved what he said was indeed true.”

  “What was the man’s name?” I asked eagerly.

  “When I asked him that, he just laughed and said—‘Why not call me Mr. Smith? I have many names but that will do as well as any for an old sinner’. And that is all he would say.”

  “And the photograph?” But I knew what she would say.

  “It was a group of young men. It looked as though they were in some sort of college setting. They were smiling at the camera and the one in the middle was holding a book. Mr. Smith said it was what we were looking for—the lost Book of Kor.”

  “Did he say anything else about the group?”

  “He gave a very unpleasant smile and said it was strange how Fate had a way of delivering one’s enemies into one’
s hands. I didn’t know what he meant by that.”

  “But I fancy I do,” I thought.

  “Oh, and one other thing,” she went on. “I forgot to mention that the emissary brought with him the holy serpents. As guardians of the Book, they will know the true book from any fake.

  “Mr. Smith said the Book was surely in England and that we should all go there immediately. We rented a house in Regent’s Park and had it officially registered as our national Consulate, so that we would be undisturbed.”

  I thought but did not say that any residence that houses a couple of King Cobras can be reasonably assured of a high degree of privacy.

  “And why did the killing start?” I surprised myself by the harsh tone that entered my voice. I must have shocked Uma, too, for she buried her face in her hands and her slight frame was wracked with sobs.

  “Mr. Smith insisted that Sunil, the emissary, and I should go with him to see Sir Simon Briggs in Scotland. He said he was merely an intermediary and that Sir Simon would only deal with the principals, should he have the Book. He said Briggs was the logical place to begin, since he was holding the Book in the photograph.

  “Then, when we arrived at the inn, he said that Sir Simon refused to see us and that we must take a more direct approach. I see now that it was a lie. I don’t believe he ever intended to contact him in a conventional way. The man had something that belonged to us. We were justified in breaking in on him. That was his argument. And I was too weak to argue.”

  “And so you did?”

  “Yes. Smith forced the French window and all three of us entered the house that way. Sir Simon was terribly shocked. Oh, it was horrible!

  “Finally, he agreed to look at the photograph and I believe he was genuinely puzzled. He said he remembered there was some old book that was supposedly the Society’s Holy Writ—I didn’t know what he meant but Smith clearly did. But he said he had no idea what had happened to it when the Society was dissolved. Frankly, I believed him and the only thing I wanted to do was to get out of there.