The Mandala of Sherlock Holmes

by Jamyang Norbu

  Sherlock Holmes turned to me,'Would you care to accompany me, Mr Mookerjee? There may be questions to be asked and my ignorance of Hindustani will certainly create difficulties in that event.'

  'It would be an honour, Sir, if any of my trifling abilities could prove to be of service to you.'

  I had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would at once plunge into a study of the mystery, but nothing appeared to be further from his intention. With an air of nonchalance which, under the circumstances, seemed to border upon affectation, he ambled slowly up the staircase. On getting to the landing he gazed vacantly around him at the ceiling, the bloodstained floor and walls (which were like those of a slaughter house). Having concluded his rather perfunctory scrutiny, he loped noiselessly over to the left corridor, following an unmistakable trail of clear red footprints and large splotches of blood.

  About five rooms down the corridor the footprints ceased, and only a few drops of blood spotted the carpet. Holmes tested the two doors on either side of this point in the passage, but only the door on the right, the one for Room 289, was open. The key still in the keyhole. Holmes pushed open the door of the room and peered in.

  'Humm, it seems empty enough.'

  'Are you expecting to find anybody, Sir?'

  'Why do you ask?'

  'Well, Sir, if the individual of enquiry is contemplating any untoward act of violence, I would not like it to occur as an unexpected incident. My nature is averse to any such shocks.'

  'So you think our victim was murdered.'

  'What other explanation is there?'

  'Dozens. Still it is a cardinal error to theorise without sufficient data. Hulloa! Who's that?'

  At the end of the corridor an old bhangi appeared, carrying his short-handled broom.

  'He is only a sweeper, Sir, most probably an employ of the hotel'

  'Get him here for a minute, will you?'

  'Most certainly, Sir. Bhangi! Idhar aao, jaldi!'

  The old man padded softly forward on his bare feet, and, approaching us, saluted Mr Holmes.

  'Namaste, sahib.'

  'Ask him if he saw anything unusual a short while ago.'

  'Listen thou, old man,' I asked in the vernacular. 'Hast thou seen anything not of the usual a litde time before?'

  'I saw nothing, Babuji but yes,' his ancient visage lighted up, 'I heard a loud scream, like that of churail.'

  'All whom God has given ears heard that,' I interrupted impatiently. 'Now listen well, servant of Lai Beg (the god of the sweepers). This tall sahib is a sakht burra afsar of the police. A man is dead. Yes, that was what the screaming was about, and the sahib is investigating. If thou desirest to retain thy nowkri at the hotel, tell me everything.'

  'Hai mail' he wailed. 'What zoolum. I saw nothing, Babuji. Nobody came this way. Only another Angrezi sahib was leaving by the rear staircase.'

  'Is it normal for sahibs to use the rear staircase?'

  'Nay, Babuji. That is for the servants of the hotel.'

  'Gadha! Why did thou not say so in the first place?'

  I paused to explain to Mr Holmes what had transpired between the sweeper and myself.

  'Now then, old man,' said I, fixing him once again with my stern gaze, 'how did this sahib look, and when did he leave?'

  'Babuji,' he wailed again, 'all Angrezi sahibs look alike.'

  'You may find yourself in a nizamut,' I said sternly, 'if you don't start remembering, jaldi!'

  'Babuji, all I saw was a thin sahib, not so young, with funny whiskers and a long nose. He looked very frightened when he ran past me.'

  Sherlock Holmes's thin lips tightened when I told him this.

  'Ask him when exactly the man left.'

  'He says, just now, Sir, just before we called him.'

  'By thunder! Where's that staircase?'

  'The sweeper says it is at the end of the corridor, Sir, and that it leads down to the trade entrance.'

  Holmes ran through the corridor and down the narrow staircase, leaving me no alternative but to follow him. We came out in a rush through the back door into a narrow alley. But obviously our prey had flown, for there, about a hundred yards ahead of us, an ecca ghari rattled furiously down the dark empty lane. As the ghari turned the corner into the main street, it came for a moment under a street lamp. The occupant happened to rise in his seat just then and turn around to look back. It was the ferret-face!

  'I fear we are a trifle late,' observed Mr Sherlock Holmes, slipping a large revolver back into his coat pocket. 'You did not, by any chance, observe the licence number of the carriage?'

  'No, Sir, but I did see something else.' I told him about ferret-face as we climbed back upstairs.

  'Quite so, quite so. He was probably a confederate,' he remarked as we reached the corridor. 'I should have anticipated something like this. Why hullo, here's Strickland. The police force must have arrived.'

  'Mr Holmes, have you discovered anything?' enquired Strickland eagerly.

  'I could only make a cursory inspection of the scene of the crime, before my attention was diverted by another incident.' Sherlock Holmes proceeded to tell Strickland of the old bhangi's tale and our fleeting encounter with the mysterious ferret-face. 'So now with your permission, I will commence my examination.'

  As he spoke, he whipped out a powerful lens and a tape measure from his pocket. With these two implements he moved noiselessly about the corridor, sometimes stopping, occasionally kneeling and once lying flat on his face. He stopped at one point and beckoned to Strickland and me. 'What do you make out of this?' he asked, pointing to something on the floor.

  'It looks like a large clot of blood,' Strickland replied.

  'Mmm ... a possibility; still, if you could lend me a handkerchief.'

  I proffered mine. He took it and wiped the red lump of blood with it. Underneath it was grey.

  'Why, it is a piece of India-rubber,' I exclaimed.

  'You think so?' Holmes remarked. 'Well, I think that's all that can be got here. Let us now proceed further.'

  Holmes entered the Room 289 and there devoted himself for fifteen minutes to one of those laborious investigations which form the solid basis of his brilliant successes. It was a memorable experience for me, to view, first hand, the actual modus operandi of a man whose incomparable achievements were famous throughout the world. The look of keen interest on Strickland's face showed that his feelings were much the same as mine. At the time I could not help but be slightly amused at the way Mr Holmes muttered away to himself under his breath the whole time, keeping up a running fire of exclamations and whistles suggestive of encouragement and hope, and the occasional groan or sigh which probably indicated otherwise.

  Near the large bed he stopped and exclaimed, pointing at the floor. 'Well, well. What do we have here?'

  'It looks like marks left by the legs of a chair,' suggested Strickland.

  'Table, my dear Strickland, definitely a table. The impressions are too wide apart for a chair. The table is not normally placed here, for the impressions would be appreciably deeper and there would be a slight difference in colour from the surrounding carpet. Also the table was removed from this position only a short time ago. Observe the tufts of carpet-pile slowly springing back into place.' He straightened up and looked around the room. 'And there we have the very article.'

  'But there's another one just like it on the other side of the room,' I interjected.

  'Ah. But the probability of this one being the right table is higher. It is just a matter of convenience. One normally uses what is closer at hand.' He walked over to the table and inspected it. CI perceive I am correct. Observe these heavy scratches on the varnish. Dear me, what a way to treat such a fine piece of furniture. Obviously someone has stood on the top of this table. Someone wearing heavy boots. Humm. Now let's see how we can fit it all together. Could you lend me a hand here?'

  Mr Holmes and I lifted the table over to the bed and set it down carefully so that the base of the legs matched the indentation
s on the carpet.

  'A perfect fit, Mr Holmes,' said I, in satisfaction. But Sherlock Holmes was already on the table and reaching out for a brass lamp of native manufacture that hung on a thin chain over the bed. The lamp, of Benaras metalwork, was wrought in the shape of a richly caparisoned elephant. Handling it gingerly with a handkerchief, he examined it closely with his lens. Finally, after about ten minutes, he let the lamp swing back over the bed, and hopped off the table.

  'Ingenious. Sheer devilish ingenuity I should not have expected less ...'He scrutinised the counterpane on the bed with his lens. 'Now logically there should be ... Ah! Just as I expected.' With the aid of a small penknife he scraped away some brown particles from the cloth and held it up to the gas light for examination.

  'It is definitely sealing-wax. Do you not think so, gentlemen?'

  'Holmes,' Strickland cried impatiendy, 'is there a connection between all this and the dead man? Was the man murdered, and if so, how? And why the tremendous bleeding? I really think you might treat us with more frankness.'

  'In all my experience I cannot recall a more singular and interesting study. My investigations are nearly complete, but I must verify a few more details before I can announce my results to you. I assure you, however, that I will only hold back the answers for the shortest possible period. In the meantime, I think you ought to know that our unfortunate dead man downstairs is a victim of both murder and accident.'

  'You speak in paradoxes, Sir,' I interjected.

  'You're making fools of us, Mr Holmes,' Strickland said angrily.

  'Tut, tut, Mr Strickland. Thefirst sign of choler I have detected in you. Still, it is my own fault. I should have made it clear.'

  'Clear, Mr Holmes? We do not even know who the dead man is.

  'The dead man was a native servant of this hotel. He was without doubt murdered. But his death was an accident, in the sense that he unfortunately placed himself in a situation where the real victim should have been instead.'

  'Then who was the murderer really after?'

  'None other than myself, I should imagine.'

  'You, Mr Holmes?'

  'Oh, I must admit to a certain notoriety in criminal circles,' Holmes chuckled, 'but it's a long story and....'

  A vague memory that had been bothering me for the last few minutes now suddenly sprang crystal-clear in my mind. 'The boat, Mr Holmes,' I cried.

  'Well, what about it?' said Strickland irritably.

  'The Kohinoor should have docked at least by midday, instead of which it could only do so late in the afternoon. If everything had gone according to schedule, Mr Holmes not only would have been in this hotel by the evening, but could have been in his room, maybe even this one, at the time of the incident.'

  'And Mr Holmes would then have been the unfortunate victim instead of the other fellow?' asked Strickland.

  'Possibly,' said Sherlock Holmes softly.'Only possibly. I assure you gentlemen, that I am not boasting of undue prescience when I say that I was anticipating an attack upon my person. I have had four such attempts made on me just this month, though I must admit that this particular one presents the most features of interest.'

  'But the room,' Strickland exclaimed.'How could the murderer have known that ...?'

  At that moment a dour looking police officer in khaki drill walked into the room. He tugged at his ragged grey moustache worriedly as he spoke.

  'The body's been taken down to the mortuary, Sir,' he said to Strickland in a strong Aberdonian accent. 'In all my years in the force I've never seen a bloodier mess than this. What could have caused such a horrible death?'

  'It's anybody's guess, at the moment,' Strickland replied. 'But things should become a littie clearer once the body's properly examined. Who's on duty at the laboratory now?'

  'Probably old Patterson, Sir.'

  'Tell him I want the autopsy performed right away. I'll be down as soon as I finish questioning Mr Sigerson and his native guide here. Mr Sigerson ministered to the dying man and may have seen or heard something that could have bearing on the case.'

  'Estrekeen' sahib could lie like a thief when he had to.

  'Then would it be all right if the hotel people were to clean up the mess? We've gone over everything with a fine tooth comb, but haven't turned up a thing.'

  'All right. If you're sure you haven't overlooked anything.'

  'Nae, Sir. I'm pretty sure I haven't,' replied the inspector, and then chuckled. 'They're having an old boy's reunion dinner downstairs — the United Services College, I think — and the manager is in a fair dither, what with the blood on the staircase and all.' He walked over to the door adjusting his topee. 'I'll leave Havildar Dilla Ram and two boys here on duty.'

  'Thank you, MacLeod. Good night.'

  After the inspector had left the room Holmes raised his eyes to to the ceiling and sighed. 'So the official detective force of the city of Bombay functions in much the same manner as old Scodand Yard.'

  'Look here, Mr Holmes,' said Strickland in an injured tone of voice. 'I admit that all of us are absolutely baffled by this mystery, and I am sure you're not. You have thrown out hints here and hints there but I think we have a right to ask you straight how much you know about the business.'

  'My dear fellow, I did not at all mean to hurt your feelings. Just a few more details to be confirmed, after which I assure you, all will be revealed. Now, I want you to be there at that autopsy and note every detail carefully. I have no hesitation in saying that the results may be crucial to the solution of the case.'

  'Well, Mr Holmes,' said Strickland, somewhat mollified, 'you have a deuced round-the-corner way of doing things, but I've put up with your reticence for so long, that I ought to be able to bear it a bit longer, I suppose.'

  'Good man,' laughed Sherlock Holmes, clapping him on the shoulder. 'And, now, for one last thing, and this may be more in Mr Mookerjee's field of interest; where could one obtain some books dealing with the flora and fauna of this country?'

  'Well, Sir,' I replied, somewhat puzzled by his unexpected request, 'the best place would be the library of the Bombay Natural History Society. I happen to know the Secretary, Mr Symington, quite well (I had demi-officially provided him with rare specimens of Tibetan primroses) and their library facilities are excellent. But I fear they will be closed now.'

  'Ah well, then tomorrow must serve,' said Sherlock Holmes compliantiy. 'I expect you here, Mr Mookerjee, bright and early tomorrow, to take me there. Now let us proceed downstairs to arrange my accommodations and have a bite of supper.'

  'You must be famished,' Strickland said ruefully.'I really should have...'

  'Not at all, my dear fellow,' Mr Holmes interrupted, leading the way out of the room. 'It has been a most instructive evening. I wouldn't have missed it for the world. Would you mind closing the door behind you? It would not do to let people know we have been snooping around here.'

  The manager had lost no time in straightening things out, it seemed, for the hotel-sweepers were busy scrubbing the staircase. They had not yet got to the landing which was still awash with blood. Holmes stopped suddenly before descending the stairs and looked with a puzzled expression at the floor.

  'Do you happen to notice anything peculiar about this blood?'

  'Why, no,' said Strickland. 'There just seems to be a lot of it around. Why? Is there anything unusual?'

  'Never mind,' Holmes replied, descending the staircase, but I overheard him muttering to himself,'Remarkable, most remarkable.'

  We were crossing the lounge to the reception desk, when the manager hurried over to us. 'A thousand apologies, Mr Sigerson. I have been most remiss in my duties as a host. But this terrible accident and...'

  'It's quite all right. I've spent a useful half hour working out the details of my proposed excursions in this city with my guide, Mr Mookerjee, here. Now if I could trouble you...'

  'Most certainly, Sir.' Mr Carvallo!' He beckoned to the clerk at the reception desk. 'A room for the gentleman.'


  Mr Carvallo, a plump sleek young gentleman, probably of Portuguese descent, reached under his desk for a key and then rang the desk-bell with a thump of his palm. A native porter in hotel livery shuffled up. He was given the room key with some instruction. He retrieved Mr Holmes's meagre baggage from the manager's office and shuffled up the staircase. Sherlock Holmes started to follow the porter, but then turned around to us. "If you'll just wait for me in the dining room, I won't be a minute. I have to get a fresh handkerchief from my valise.'

  Strickland and I walked over to the dining room where we were at a small table in a corner of the room. Obviously, the United Services College Old Boys' (with ladies) reunion dinner had not ended, for the centre of the hall was lined with large banquet tables and occupied by the formally dressed ladies and gentlemen who earlier in the evening, had received such a rude shock from our dead friend. Needless to say, the banquet did not appear to be a particularly cheerful one. As a turbaned waiter in white livery silently filled our water glasses, Mr Holmes stepped briskly into the dining room, laughing silently in his strange way as he seated himself and unfolded his napkin.

  'It is most piquant. Can you guess which room I have been given?'

  'Surely not...' I cried in amazement, but I was anticipated.

  'Yes, 289.'

  'By Thunder!' exclaimed Strickland' 'It must be that smirking manager. Let me take him down to the thana and I'll make him talk, as quick as Jack Ketch's gibbet.'

  'Hold your peace, Strickland,' Sherlock Holmes held out his hand in an imperious fashion. 'I assure you that I anticipated this very move. Furthermore, we have no proof of the manager's

  complicity in this business. Anyhow, whoever it is, we mustn't scare him off at this initial stage of the game.'

  'But your life, man! Surely you're not going to sleep there tonight?'

  'My very intention. Nothing will happen in that room tonight, my dear fellow. I am staking more than my poor reputation on it. And now let us not vex ourselves any further with these conundrums. Ah, this Solferino soup and roast chicken a la Moghul is the very thing. Could I propose a bottle of Montrachet to celebrate my...umm, somewhat eventful arrival onto the shores of the Indian Empire?'