The Oriental Casebook of Sherlock Holmes (11 page)

“‘Whatever the nature of the phenomena, Mr. Holmes, I believe we are dealing with some evil presence that has come to Katmandu. I arrived in Nepal almost exactly eight years ago. Before that I had served in Rajasthan at our garrison in Kotah and then Ajmer as consul assigned to two princely courts, and then finally in Indore. I was then offered this post and accepted with alacrity. My wife, however, was less sanguine, and it became clear that the narrow orthodoxy of the Hindoo rulers, and the poverty of the bazaar and the countryside, led to a boredom that became intolerable to her. A marriage that had been more or less a social convenience fell apart under the strain, and after a few months in Katmandu we parted, she returning to England where our daughter was put in school.

“For the first time in many years I felt free, and in a short time one of the beautiful servant girls became my mistress. Her name was Mara and she was as beautiful and kind as a gentle maid could be. Very soon, Mara became with child. This appalled me at first, but there was little I could do but what a Nepalese nobleman would do: let her have the child and support them both. Her family learned from her what had transpired and became furious. Their anger was subverted, however, by large dollops of cash which I contributed to their impecunious coffers, and they became not only reconciled but genuinely pleased at the result, for they are Sherpas, Buddhists by faith, freer in their social ties and far less under the sway of the Hindoos than the other tribes of Nepal.

“The birth, however, proved to be extremely difficult. What had appeared to be normal in every way turned into a horror. The surgeon, Mr. Oldfield, tried his best to work through the gaggle of superstitious women who attended the birth, but despite the power of his medicine, Mara died in childbirth and the infant died with her. I was greatly grieved by her loss, for this gentle friend had filled my lonely hours with solace. Because she died in childbirth and because the child was part
feringhi
, of European percentage, she could not be cremated according to the usual rites, so Mara and the child were buried in the Residence garden. Except for Dr. Oldfield, who aided me in every way, I might have gone mad with grief. He nursed me through the worst and then unfortunately was reassigned to Calcutta. He was succeeded eventually by Dr. Wright, who has ministered to me through my present illness.”

The visions, he said, began not long after Dr. Oldfield departed for India. He was sitting alone in the garden one evening. The newly arrived Wright and he had supped together, and he had retired early. It grew dark, the wind began to blow rather hard, and the air filled with bats from the large jacaranda trees. Then he heard what sounded like the groans of a woman and an infant’s wail. A figure, wearing the dress of England of a half century ago, appeared in the far corner of the yard, as if bewildered, looking, bending, searching. He carried a light.

“I stared in amazement, wondering how such a figure could have entered without my seeing him. I shouted first, but it paid no attention. I then rushed towards it, but by the time I got there, it had disappeared without a trace.”

“Most interesting,” said Holmes, “not unlike the disappearance that we witnessed tonight, though the bullets that passed through him may have made him travel a bit faster.”

Richardson smiled for the first time, and continued with his description.

“I first thought it was some sort of ruse and tried to put it out of my mind” he said. “But I was clearly frightened by something I remembered: it was an old wives’ tale concerning Hodgson. It was said that Hodgson had a Nepalese wife who died in childbirth and who is buried in the garden. The burial of a second wife there, in the same ground, would cause an intolerable rivalry between their spirits and would cause his wife’s spirit to summon him for protection. The tale must have had some subtle effect for at the same time I became racked with fever, horrible pain in every joint and muscle and pain in the very core of my stomach, as though I had been pierced by a flaming-hot rod. And so there I sat, guilty of no crime, yet visited by an affliction that seemed to demand nothing less than my demise, at least until your arrival upon the scene.”

Richardson finished speaking and Holmes could see that he by now was on the point of exhaustion. He summoned Gorashar, who after hearing of some of the events of the night, promised that he would have Richardson safely installed in his own chambers within the hotel, an area totally inaccessible to outsiders.

“Gorashar also had received answers to my inquiries, and here, Watson, is illustrated one of those general truths concerning our relations with foreign nations that often goes unnoticed by our Government’s servants abroad: that what is common knowledge in the bazaar rarely reaches through to the isolated confines of our diplomatic institutions. What I learned was that the surgeon-general Daniel Wright, appointed to join Richardson at the Residence, had been attacked and murdered shortly after he had crossed the Nepalese border. He had been replaced by an impostor, an Englishman whose identity was unknown. Another Englishman had been observed at the scene of the crime, but his role in it was also unknown. Whoever he was, however, it was believed that he was acting in concert with those in the palace who had decided to do away with the present Maharajah and replace him with one of their own family. Were the intrigue to prove successful, the new group would be far less friendly to British power in the Subcontinent. The appearance of spirits and ghosts within the Residence was widely believed by the population to signify some approaching calamity for them, whether political or natural they did not know. So much for the bazaar. The glance of evil intelligence that I had seen in the eyes of Rizzetti’s murderer led me to believe, however, that he had his own selfish motives, and that even the Nepalese plotters were not safe from his designs.”

By then it was early morning. Holmes dressed and made his way to the Residence for his usual daily visit with Shiv Shankar and Shri Gunanand. As he entered, it was apparent that something was amiss. Only Gunanand was there. He informed him that the Resident had disappeared during the night and that his whereabouts were unknown. Dr. Wright was now in charge of the Residence and had gone to the Maharajah’s court to notify the Nepalese government of the Resident’s disappearance. Miss Richardson had taken to her room but had left word that she should be notified as soon as Pandit Kaul arrived. She appeared in the pandits’ study almost immediately. She did well in hiding her emotions, but Holmes detected extreme agitation and worry in her eyes.

“You have probably heard the news of my father’s disappearance, Panditji. Where could he be? I am terribly afraid for him.”

“Perhaps a walk in the garden might help,” Holmes said. He longed to tell her that her father was safe, but decided that an honestly distraught daughter was the best course, for under the circumstances the merest slip by her and the villains would be threatening her as well.

She smiled wanly. “Yes,” she said, “why not? Father is very proud of his flowers.”

As they walked, she told him of the events that had unfolded the night before.

“I wonder,” said Holmes, “if you could show me the spot where the apparition appeared. I have an interest in folklore and local superstitions, being a native of these mountains myself, though I come from the very far western region.”

They crossed the terrace and entered the gardens. Several malis were at work, planting new beds of flowers. It was as though they were thrown into St. James’s in May. At one end of the garden Holmes noticed what appeared to be a bathing place.

“This is an old dhara or watering place, my father says. It dates from the time of the Licchavi kings. It has not been used for centuries,” she said.

“‘I see that you have become a student of local history,” said Holmes.

“Not really, though I do take some interest. What I know is very little, some from my father, but mostly from the resident pandits.”

Holmes was eager to take a closer look at the structure. He noticed what appeared to be an old inscription on the spout of the fountain.

“‘I would like to have a closer look at the inscription.”

“Of course,” she said.

Lucy waited above as Holmes climbed down the small set of steps that descended into the tank itself. Grass and other weeds had filled much of it, and it showed no signs of use. He looked closely at the inscription at first, then his eyes fell to the ground. Everywhere there were high weeds, the look of disrepair, of no movement or life for centuries. At one end there was the usual water spout decorated with ancient gargoyles. Below it a stone bas-relief of the usual water sprite. The sculpture was quite beautiful, but what riveted his attention were two large stones below it that looked as though they had recently been moved. Fresh scrapes around their edges could have been made within the last twenty-four hours. Then he saw on the ground the most interesting thing of all: fragments of wood, or perhaps bamboo, that looked as though they had just been thrown there. He leaned down to pick up the larger pieces, carefully putting them in his pocket.

Holmes climbed the stairs and rejoined Miss Richardson. “A most interesting inscription,” he said, “of the famous king Amshuvarman.”

“How interesting,” she said, “‘I had no idea. Perhaps you might translate it . . .” She did not continue, for he could see that she was again overcome by worry for her father.

She was silent as they walked back to the Residence. As they reached the end of their walk, she looked up and said: “Panditji, I do not trust Dr. Wright. My suspicions may be groundless, for he has done nothing that I can point to, but I sometimes feel in his impatience that he bears my father no good will. Now my father has disappeared and I feel that perhaps Wright has something to do with it.”

“Miss Richardson,” said Holmes, “let me confide in you. There is far more going on in this Residence than meets the eye, and I shall do all I can to help. Tell no one of our conversation and, above all, nothing of my interest in the inscription in the dhara. I shall be close by should you need me.” She seemed reassured, and Holmes bade her good-bye and left. As he walked back through the bazaar, he began to sift through what he knew. The so-called apparition had come and gone through the dhara, that was clear. The large stones were obvious. But from where to where—that was the major question. How and where did this person enter the dhara from within?

When he entered the hotel, Gorashar informed him that the Resident was resting peacefully in a hidden location in the hotel, and that he was safe. Holmes then asked if he might avail myself of a small library of Asiatic researches that Gorashar kept in his private lodgings. Gorashar escorted him to the room himself, and Holmes began looking through the historical works on Nepal.

“I began searching for clues to the ancient form of Katmandu. My eye was immediately caught by a volume entitled
Essays on the Languages, History, and Geography of Nepal.
The author was Brian Hodgson himself. I grasped the volume and cast my eye quickly over the table of contents. I read quickly through several articles, one on festivals and processions and another on the ancient agricultural implements of the Newars. My eye was soon caught by a title: “On the Fountains and Possible Ancient Waterways of Katmandu.” It was a long tedious essay, filled with detailed descriptions of the various fountains of the cities of the valley, of which there are literally hundreds if not thousands that date from at least early Christian times. One paragraph, however, caught my eye:

There is no doubt that a complex system of water supply linked the large public fountains both in ancient and medieval times. The large terra-cotta water pipes were serviced by a series of tunnels. There is evidence that the system operated well into the eighteenth century. It is only with the total defeat of the Malla kings by the Gurkhas that this system fell into decay and disuse. Many of the old dharas, having lost their water supply, have turned into vessels of vile filth or have been abandoned to the growth of wild vegetation. If the present regime revives the system, it would be for its own purposes and designs, and it is eminently possible that these underground waterways and tunnels, still sturdy passageways, could be used for political intrigue and military surprise, techniques so successfully employed in the past by the Gurkhas. I am sure that, if one chose to, the Residence compound could be easily infiltrated in this way, but as yet I see no evidence or need for the present rulers to do so. Fortunately, the system appears to have been totally forgotten by the native population.

“I had found my clue, Watson. The Residence contained one of the entrances to the old underground network. One could enter it with ease from the old dhara, either for invasion or to cause hallucinations. If one knew the system, one could enter and leave from almost any point. This was the means by which Hodgson’s so-called ghost had entered. The grounds of the Residence had indeed been haunted, from the very beginning perhaps, by a number of people working for their own ends. How whoever had come upon his discovery of this ancient network was not clear, but of his use of it I had no doubt. It enabled him to roam the city at will without fear of discovery. I now had to smoke him out or go in after him.”

Holmes eyes were now ablaze with excitement. He lapsed into silence for a few moments before he proceeded, reliving in memory those moments of turbulent emotion as he began to fit the pieces of this complicated mystery together. I said nothing this time, the look of anticipation on my face being sufficient to indicate that I wished him to continue. He suddenly became quite pensive and said: “I then began to wonder who indeed it might be. This was a master criminal. Was it this man Morrison, who had disappeared in England and had professed such interest in Katmandu? His name meant nothing to me, and the little that I knew so far—a businessman with dealings in Holland and the Dutch colonies—told me nothing. Yet, it is my calling to know what others do not. Could such a person be unknown to me?”