Sensing Collier’s intense agitation Holmes immediately responded. ‘I can assure you that you are very welcome to both.’
‘Bless you for that, Mr Holmes.’ Collier breathed in deeply for a moment or two and he appeared to be greatly relieved. ‘Despite its great length and detail it might be best if I were to read it aloud to you, if that is agreeable to you?’ Holmes nodded his emphatic assent. ‘However, before I begin perhaps it would be best if I were to briefly describe my own current circumstances and how things stand between me and the remainder of my family. If I might crave your indulgence for a moment or two …’ Collier pointed towards the open window from where he drew in some welcome fresh air before resuming his craving for Indian cheroots. Repeatedly he ran his fingers through his long flaxen hair before withdrawing a battered brown package from his inside jacket pocket.
Collier then resumed his seat and began speaking in a hushed, reverent tone.
‘Sadly, my dear late mother contracted the disease malaria when she accompanied my father upon his vain quest to establish the authenticity of the Biblical reference to the land of Sheba and its supposed location in North East Africa. Her subsequent untimely passing had a profound and debilitating effect upon my father, who then withdrew to his retreat in Buckinghamshire from where he has only recently emerged.’
‘Ah, I had wondered why so little has been heard from him of late,’ I interrupted.
Holmes and Collier both turned quizzically towards me. ‘Then you already know of my father?’ Collier asked.
‘Indeed I do!’ I confirmed emphatically while rising from my chair. I went across to my small library and from there, adjacent to my prized copy of General Gordon’s biography, I extracted a copy of Journeys Through the Lands of the Bible by Sir Michael Collier. I displayed this to the author’s son by way of confirming my interest in his father’s work.
Collier smiled proudly. ‘It was certainly one of the expeditions with which he was most gratified.’
‘Thank you, Watson,’ Holmes murmured. Collier immediately handed the volume back to me, as conscious as I had been of Holmes’s irritation at my diversion. Holmes gestured for Collier to resume his story by way of a dramatic wave of his hand. I returned to my seat with my notebook and pencil at the ready.
‘Gentlemen, although it might sound absurd for me to say this, under the present circumstances, but my family are extremely close in all respects other than the geographical. Indeed, ever since the tragic passing of my mother all the more so. My beautiful young sister, Charlotte is, at present, engaged in missionary work somewhere in the depths of central Africa. My father is possibly lost somewhere in the East Indies and I have just returned from my study of the mysterious ‘Waiting Stones’ of Cornwall. The wanderlust has certainly invaded our family and yet wherever it might lead us, we have always felt joined by a common familial bond that shall never be broken … not even in death.’ Collier paused for a moment to put a flame to his cheroot.
‘I am familiar with those remarkable standing stones myself. During a recuperative sabbatical on the Cornish coast that very nearly cost me my life,2 I spent many an hour walking amongst those stones, although I was never able to unlock their ancient secrets,’ Holmes observed reflectively during the brief pause. Collier gravely nodded his acknowledgement before continuing:
‘Therefore the abrupt ending to my father’s most recent letter is all the more surprising. It has been months since he left his retreat to begin his quest to prove that an advanced Hindu civilization had existed long before the period that has been generally accepted by the scholars. He sent me a brief note to the effect that it was his intention to take up the trail of an aged guru whom he had encountered in East Africa and accordingly to sail to Calcutta on the first available schooner from London.
‘That was the last that I was to hear from him until this arrived at my lodgings in St Ives, just two days ago.’ With that Collier extracted the contents of the envelope that had been the focal point of our attention since we had returned to our rooms. So intent was Holmes on examining the envelope before Collier would have a chance to read its contents that he leapt forward and snatched it from the bewildered young man’s grasp. With the same urgency and intent, he held it beside the illumination of a small oil lamp and painstakingly scrutinized every inch of the envelope’s surface with his small magnifying glass.
It was only then that I became conscious of the gathering gloom outside our windows. When Mrs Hudson came in to draw our blinds and kindle the fire, I realized that a long though enthralling night lay ahead of us.
Notes
(1) From ‘The Problem at Thor Bridge’ By Sir A.C.D.
(2) From the ‘The Adventure of the Devil’s Foot’ By Sir A.C.D.
CHAPTER FOUR
A FATHER’S TALE
‘Mr Collier,’ Holmes began accusingly, ‘why have you retained only one of the envelopes that enclosed these papers?’
‘The first was sufficiently large to contain all of my father’s correspondence, so therefore the others appeared to be redundant. However, I have not mentioned the fact that there were more than one letter,’ Collier explained.
‘You did not need to. See here …’ Holmes moved over to Collier and then to me, with his glass trained on the seams of the envelope. ‘When the envelope was originally sealed the flap folded smoothly over the contents and yet the seams of the bottom two corners are now clearly stretched, almost to the point of splitting in two. This shows something bulkier has been inserted since it was opened. One can sometimes learn more from an apparently unremarkable envelope than from the letter within. Although I am sure that that is not the case in this instance. How many letters are there?’
‘There were three in total,’ Collier quietly replied, obviously still enthralled by Holmes’s simple process of deduction.
‘Since I have already deduced that the first of these was the briefest and as it bears a London postmark, it must contain items of a personal nature. Therefore, the other two must provide detailed journals of your father’s travels. The stationery and ink are of the highest quality, as one would expect of a man of letters, and the script is strong and confident. May I have a sight of the actual letters before I ask you to read from them?’
‘Certainly.’ Collier placed them into the clutches of Holmes’s eager, outstretched fingers.
Holmes studied the letters with a brief intensity before returning them to our young client.
‘Watson, kindly note the fact that the writing employed in each of the letters sadly reflects the fluctuations in Collier’s state of mind and his circumstances, as his journeys progressed. The first is written in a strong, bold steady hand, probably in the man’s study. The second is written in a similar hand, although its fluctuations indicate the motions of the vessels in which he travelled, and the same stationery and ink are in use. However, the third, truncated, missive is an altogether different affair.
‘The writing is now an erratic scratching. The stationery comprises various types of coarse Indian paper and the ink is weak and watery. The fact that it ends abruptly and in mid sentence is most suggestive and is, therefore, of the most concern. Now, I must charge you to omit not a word nor any nuance as you read from each letter in turn.’
Holmes sat crossed kneed upon his favourite chair. His pipe was nestled in the ashtray closest to him while his tightly closed eyes aided his deepest concentration.
Daniel Collier read aloud with a clear, steady and most expressive voice, as if he was reciting from a piece of prose. ‘The first letter is dated the fourteenth of July, 1897.’
‘Why, that is fully thirteen months ago!’ I offered and I observed a brief condescending smile playing over Holmes’s thin lips, although his eyes remained tightly shut as he listened to the reading.
My dear boy, I owe you a thousand apologies for having maintained my silence for so long a period of time. I can assure you that this has not been a deliberate attempt of mine to exclude you from my life a
nd my thoughts. Quite the contrary in fact, for not a day has passed without you and our beloved Charlotte having been uppermost in my dreams and in my prayers. Knowing all too well the caring nature of both you and your sister, I can only imagine the pain and anxiety that I have caused you. I have written, in similar fashion, to sweet Charlotte (although heaven only knows if she will ever receive the letter in the depths of Central Africa) and I pray that she will grant me the same forgiveness that I now crave from you.
You must try to understand that the loss of your beloved mother has cleaved a mighty chasm in my life that will never be filled nor healed. A dark, voluminous cloud now hangs over me that no wind will ever disperse. Therefore I have barricaded myself within the confines of our pretentiously titled pile of ‘Nirvana’ surrounded by my writings and the treasures that I have collected from around the globe. It is only now that I have come to the realization that the only one of these that ever really mattered is the one that can never be restored to me, my dear, sweet wife.
When I remember all the sacrifices that she made in order to satisfy my obsessions and the hardships that she endured, just to be with me throughout my long and perilous journeys, I finally concluded that my self-imposed exile from the world was the last thing that she would have wanted of me.
After all, one lesson that I should have learned from the many books that I have read of the Eastern sages, is that attachment for any thing or any one, is the worst and potentially most dangerous of all of our human failings. Attachment for an idea leads to longing, then to craving and obsession. Attachment for an object and more especially a person leads to pain upon their being lost to you. This pain leads to anger and resentment, hatred and ultimately to loss of intelligence. This is the sorry state that I have descended to of late.
As a consequence I have decided to, once again, take up the trail that I was first led upon by various ancient Sadhus, or holy men, whom I had encountered during my last trip to the Far East. As you might recall it was my intention to examine more closely the notion that an advanced civilization existed in the sub-continent long before the date established by Western historians. Of course, the potential dangers of confirming this most radical of truths had occurred to me and, as your mother was with me at the time, this and the extreme climate that we were experiencing, forced me to abandon the expedition prematurely and return your mother safely to these shores.
Ironically I deemed that the search for Sheba would prove to be a far safer option for your mother to undertake with me. That decision and its tragic consequence, is one that I shall forever regret. So now, in honour of her memory, I shall return to the very cradle of civilization.
Those pious and ascetic Sadhus spoke of a gigantic pillar that had been constructed from an unidentifiable metal. It has neither aged nor corroded throughout its existence. Its age has only recently been calculated by the interpretation of the inscription engraved upon the pillar’s circumference. It has been engraved in the ancient form of Sanskrit, the Gupta script. Amongst other things the inscription bears testament to the fact that the pillar was dedicated to the great Hindu god Vishnu by the legendary king, Chandragupta II of the Gupta dynasty. Astoundingly, recent research has proved that he reigned between the years 375-413 A.D! Obviously, therefore, the metal pillar must have been constructed sometime between the fourth and fifth centuries.
I decided that I had to view this astounding relic with my own eyes and to see where this might lead me in my quest, the consequences of which I cannot even begin to speculate upon.
Therefore, I have booked myself passage aboard a small Greek schooner, the Diomedes that sails from London on 28 September, bound for Calcutta. I have chosen this particular vessel for she will be laying up at the Cape for several days while she takes on supplies, and it may prove to be an opportunity for me to visit Natal and enquire after news of your sister in the hinterland.
Whether or not I am successful in this I assure you that I shall write to you at every opportunity with news of my progress and well-being. I trust that this remains of interest to you and that my years of absence have not induced indifference. Should God grant me a safe return I will endeavour to heal any resentment that you might bear towards me and to be the father that, perhaps, I always should have been.
‘He signs off simply with his initials,’ Daniel Collier breathlessly concluded.
‘What a remarkably honest and heartfelt insight into a man’s regrets and his very soul. We must thank you for allowing us to share it with you,’ I said quietly.
Holmes reacted as if my words had broken a spell and he had been awakened from a deep trance. He leapt from his chair and immediately lit a cigarette with the glow from one of our fire’s dying embers. He smoked in silence for a moment or two, then glanced at the clock.
‘Look at the hour!’ he exclaimed. ‘I have been most neglectful, Mr Collier. We must refresh you before expecting you to read still further. Watson, you must use your charms, with the fairer sex, and secure for us a tray or two of supper from Mrs Hudson.’ This request from Holmes was as surprising as it was welcome and I embarked upon my simple mission with understandable enthusiasm.
When I made my triumphant return, with news of soup and braised kidneys, Collier excused himself so that he could clear his head with a brisk walk down Baker Street.
‘Holmes, I have noted, down the years, how you have always demanded precision and brevity from your clients when they have been outlining their cases to you. Yet in the case of Daniel Collier and his father’s remarkable letter, you appear to have hung upon his every word with great intensity and without the impatience that you normally fail to conceal,’ I observed quietly while we awaited both our supper and the return of our client.
Holmes observed me quizzically for a moment or two while he lit his cherry-wood. ‘Sometimes it is as important to have an insight into the character of the principal in a case as it is to be in possession of the relevant facts. In this instance we are fortunate indeed, for Sir Michael Collier has laid himself bare before us and revealed a remarkable nature. Besides which, I am already convinced that we are about to delve into areas that are considerably beyond the realms of my usual investigations. Therefore, it is impossible, at this early stage, for me to distinguish between those facts that are irrelevant and the ones that might guide us to the truth.’
‘You have already heard something that so convinces you?’ I asked incredulously.
Holmes smiled enigmatically, as he drew leisurely on his pipe. ‘Something suggestive, perhaps,’ he stated simply. Unfortunately I was to learn nothing more of my friend’s thoughts at this time, for a moment later the welcome sight of Mrs Hudson, awkwardly bearing a heavily laden tray full of food, interrupted us. Daniel Collier returned from his constitutional a moment later and the three of us made short work of our impromptu meal.
Once our empty plates had been cleared away, a glass of port had been poured for each of us and our cigars were under way, we three returned to our seats by the fire and Holmes invited our client to read from his father’s second letter. After a long draw from his cheroot and a sip from his port, the young archaeologist cleared his throat and began to read.
‘The envelope is post-marked Calcutta and the letter itself is dated the fifteenth of October 1897.
My dearest son Daniel, I sincerely hope that this letter, from the ‘Jewel in the Crown’ finds you in good health and that your own investigations are progressing as well as you would have hoped for.
After my last communication I lost little time in securing my passage aboard the Diomedes and I sent my luggage and equipment ahead of me to the port of London, while I closed up and made arrangements for the house. The Diomedes turned out to be a somewhat smaller vessel than had been originally described to me and I was disappointed to discover that my berth was barely large enough to contain my bunk, which itself proved to be far too small to contain my frame of six feet three inches.
However, the Diomedes did have one advantage
over the other available vessels that were departing at this time, in that she was to lay up in Cape Town for a full three weeks before proceeding to Calcutta. This fuelled my ambition to travel into Natal in order to learn more of the ways of the famed Zulu witch doctors, but, more important, it would give me the opportunity to make enquiries into the welfare of our sweet Charlotte. This thought alone consoled me throughout all of my inconveniences and discomforts.
These were tolerable, at least during the early stages of our voyage. The glass was set fair, a steady westerly wind filled our canvas and my treks around the deck were enjoyably bracing. All this ended somewhat abruptly, however as we edged our way across the infamous Bay of Biscay.
The wind that had, so far, proved to be our compliant servant, suddenly turned to a northerly and seemed to unleash its pent-up frustrations against us as the tempest sought to destroy us. Our masts were suddenly dwarfed by the unimaginable height of the sheer, white waves that threatened to engulf our tiny vessel. The ship’s master, Captain Theo Economides, ordered that every non-essential crew member and passenger be confined below decks and there we were to remain, battened down, for three full days and nights!
I can assure you, my dear boy, that those three days might as well have been three months. My ‘cupboard’ seemed to shrink with each passing hour and the time between each striking of the bell appeared to get longer and longer. The waves, however would not be denied as they cascaded throughout every crevice of the ship’s timbers. Then, to add to our woes, a particularly ferocious lashing drowned and snuffed out the fire in the cook house, thus ensuring that our meagre rations were cold and almost inedible.
I attempted every means that I could devise to shut out our perilous condition from my mind. Then I thought back to the teachings of the very gurus whom I was now on my way to meet once again and the ancient practice of meditation proved to be my salvation. The sounds of the heaving waves were suddenly muted and the rise and fall of the ship slowly levelled off, my hunger became nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
Sherlock Holmes and the Giant Rat of Sumatra Page 5