The Oriental Casebook of Sherlock Holmes (13 page)

In the meantime, I invite you to enjoy the events that will ensue shortly. And, to allay any doubts that you may have had, Lucy is here beside me and sends her very best to you.

James Moriarty”

As Holmes recited the contents of Moriarty’s letter, he visibly turned pale before me, and I felt his overwhelming despair. So palpably did he relive the events in his narrative that I found myself fearing the worst. It was only his presence before me that guaranteed the outcome. He had suffered a piece of very bad luck in Moriarty’s interception of Mycroft’s message, perhaps even a mortal one, but certainly an unforgivable one in his own eyes. His face and body sagged in front of me as he uttered the last words that Moriarty had written him. But as he approached the final events of his tale, he regained his confidence and continued his narrative.

“The last sentence, the reference to Lucy, made it imperative that I act with the greatest speed. I raced down the hotel steps, only to be accosted by Gorashar, who pleaded with me not to leave the hotel, for he said that a rumour had spread rapidly through the city that the Brahmanical predictions for calamity had fallen on this very night and that people were engaged in frantic worship to dispel the displeasure of the gods caused by the presence of the English, the
feringhi Mleccha
, or barbarians, on their sacred soil. A Brahman, mad with fear, had just killed a
Kusle
, an untouchable, in a rage over having been polluted by the untouchable’s shadow. This incident had taken place not far from the hotel. This was taken by the people as the sign that Vishnu himself was to appear in his last avatar. After his appearance, the present era would come to an end, evildoers would be punished, and a new ruling dynasty would be installed. Gorashar himself believed none of this and considered it part of a plot to overthrow the present regime. He did not know who the actors were, nor where they were, but the most primitive emotions had now been unleashed and the people would listen to no one, neither the Rana, nor the King himself, for their fate was also sealed in what was seen by a superstitious people as the end of the world. It was at times like this, said Gorashar, that he feared the violent emotions pent up for centuries in the hearts of a gentle but oppressed people. The priests had called for the entire population to assemble at nightfall in the Tundhikhel, the meeting ground in the center of the city, for a
Maha Puja
, or great sacrifice, to pacify the god Vishnu.”

It was already dusk and Holmes could hear the footfalls of many people running to the great field or
maidan
in the centre of the city. He had little time before it became dark. He pulled away from Gorashar’s anxious grip and ran into the street. Everywhere people were walking, some running towards the Tundhikhel. Each person carried a flaming torch of straw as they marched towards their destination. The city was as if in flames, as if every human being was pulled by the desire to void the priestly prophesy.

“I ran towards Asan, unnoticed by the crowd that hypnotically moved in the opposite direction, looking for the shop where I had once seen Thalmann, the Austrian gunsmith. The shop was closed, but I broke the lock to the entrance with no difficulty. No one was there—I was sure Thalmann was part of the evening’s programme, as were the other criminals I had seen in the bazaar. I found what I had hoped to find, however. There, in a back room hidden from the street, Thalmann had kept several of the finest examples of his craft: I chose the best of the Salzburg rifles, itself the most accurate weapon then in existence. Thalmann had stored an endless supply of ammunition. I stuffed my pockets with bullets, wrapped the rifle in a woollen blanket, and made my way towards the Tundhikhel, now bright with tens of thousands of torches.”

The heat and smoke were intense, said Holmes, and several people were lying on the ground, overcome by the flames and smoke. Then, suddenly, as he reached the edge of Bhotahity, the first of several explosions rocked the city. The sky flashed bright with their light and he was thrown to the ground by their force. People cried in fear but continued their blind flight towards the Tundhikhel. He picked myself up and ran with them. When he reached the great
maidan
, he looked for a building from where he could see from above. He darted into a nearby house, vacant now, climbing the stairs as fast as he could. When he reached the veranda, he saw the crowds converging in the field, the priests exhorting them to hurry to perform the great offering. The entire
maidan
appeared to be in flames, as if lit by a thousand suns. The explosions he now saw were coming from the southwest, from the military cantonment, where large amounts of explosives were stored.

Suddenly, the explosions stopped. There was dead silence. Holmes heard only the chanting of a priest and the crackling of the straw torches.

“Then came the sound of Vishnu,” he said, “the roar of a thousand conch shells. I looked towards the east. There, riding slowly on a large white horse, was a gigantic figure, four-armed, crowned with a golden helmet. He was accompanied by a large group of cavalry that rode behind him, dressed in ancient Hindoo military regalia. The great white horse stopped before the crowd. The people bowed in awe. Great Vishnu had arrived. The crowd was as one as it waited for the divine message.

“I had but a moment now,” said Holmes, his eyes ablaze. “I raised the rifle to my shoulder and took aim at the great figure, directly at his head and chest. I fired and heard the impact of my bullet. I fired again as fast as I could. The figure reeled, trying to hold on to the reins, but the horse reared up, throwing the rider. My shots had blown away the top part of the rider’s costume, revealing a common bamboo cage, resting on the shoulders of a tall Englishman, who now stood exposed to the enormous hostile crowd assembled in front of him.”

The last avatar of Vishnu had been fatally exposed. His allies in the plot quickly abandoned him. His soldiers fled, and the crowd, seeing him and him alone as the perpetrator of this blasphemy, pulled him from his horse and, several drawing their
Khukhris
, swiftly despatched James Moriarty to his final destiny.

“I had still to find Lucy Richardson, however. I descended into the crowd and saw Caspariste trying to flee after having fallen from his horse. I grabbed him and, with a few threats, convinced him to take me to the dead Moriarty’s lair. We entered the underground waterways through a dhara near the Mahakala temple, and walked by candlelight to a series of chambers that had been used by the ancient engineers of the city. There, still under guard, was a terrified Lucy Richardson. Once informed that the plot had failed, the guard fled, and Lucy accompanied me back to the hotel, where she rejoined her father. Caspariste I allowed to go free to seek his own fate.”

The following morning, said Holmes, the Maharajah of Nepal, Bir Shamsher, announced the arrest of one of his younger brothers, for plotting revolutionary activities with an unknown
Mleccha
, a heathen foreigner, who had performed a heinous deed by attempting to impersonate the great god Vishnu. They had wished not only to overthrow his government, he said, but also to create a state of tension between Nepal and the Government of India, and to destroy the trust between him and the Nepalese people. Henceforward, he said, even more severe restrictions would be imposed on the entrance of foreigners to the Kingdom, and those who had participated in the plot would be severely punished. He absolved the Resident, his family, and the staff of any complicity in the events of the last few weeks, and announced again his desire for the friendliest relations with the Government of India and the Queen-Empress, and that he had communicated directly with Lord Dufferin.

Holmes rose from where we had been seated. “There is more to the story, Watson, but it is late and perhaps you have heard enough.”

Neither of us was ready to retire, and I suggested a walk outside so that he could complete the tale. As we walked down Baker Street, I looked at my friend as he strode, tall and erect now, against the darkening trees and the star-filled sky. We walked for a time in silence. He only spoke when we arrived at Trafalgar Square and then only in answer to my bewildered silence, for on many levels much remained unexplained.

“I assume, Watson, that you are sorting out your puzzlements. You have the narrative, and the clues, of course, but certain crucial deductions had to be made and, in fairness to you, could only be made on the spot.”

“Tell me first,” I said, “what you deduced from the bamboo fragments.”

“Almost everything. You see, they connected three crucial elements of the mystery: the figure of Hodgson’s ghost, Lucy’s disappearance, and finally, Moriarty’s appearance as Vishnu. This web of connections came to me as I stared at them. They were obviously the result of Richardson’s bullet hitting the tall figure of Hodgson. Why had he not produced blood instead of bamboo with his bullets? It was only after staring at them that I remembered the processions I had seen, and a note in passing in Hodgson’s essays concerning religious processions among the Newars of Katmandu: the men dress as their gods by wearing bamboo cages on their upper bodies. These then bear the large head of the deity and the divine drapery. The effect is quite dramatic: large, tall divine figures appear to walk down the paths of the old cities to the temples themselves. In the night they are quite striking. Fortunately, for the person underneath the head and clothes of Hodgson, Richardson did not aim any lower, for had he, the result would have been quite different.”

“And who was that person?”

“Caspariste, who admitted as much to me before I let him go. He is still at large. The same local custom was taken advantage of to capture Lucy Richardson, for as she was walking in the bazaar, a procession passed and she was whisked under one of the idols by one of Moriarty’s henchmen, in this case a local soldier, who took her to Moriarty’s hideaway. And, of course, I realised instantly that I could unseat Moriarty from his mount if I could but have the means. The Salzburg rifle, incidentally, my dear Watson, is a formidable weapon.”

“I must say, Holmes, that I am still a bit puzzled by Moriarty’s purpose. Why did he do what he did?”

Holmes laughed. “Ah, Watson, surely all of this had high stakes. As you know, we do not keep our Empire without a price, and we have many enemies both within the Subcontinent and Asia as a whole. We are the envy of mankind, but we must maintain constant vigilance. The plot in brief was to incapacitate the Resident and to keep him permanently ill and isolated, but not to kill him unless absolutely necessary; then, during his incapacitation, to take over the Nepalese Government and to install a group friendly on the outside but inwardly inimicable to British interests in the Subcontinent; and from there, with the aid of unfriendly nations, to forge alliances with dissatisfied groups and princes elsewhere in India in order to drive us out. I can assure you that an alliance of Gurkhas, Sikhs, Mahrattas, and Afghans would surely give us a bit of a time. It almost happened a few decades ago. Your own experiences in Afghanistan should allow you to recall the price that we have often paid to keep our Empire at peace. The diabolical part of course was to prey upon the people, by using their superstitious fears, their own history and predictions—in fact, to attempt to topple the present Government. Moriarty could not resist playing Vishnu himself, an incredible piece of theatre, I must say. In all likelihood, however, his worldly stakes were even higher than his divine aspirations: to become the leader of an independent India.”

“Had you not been there, Holmes, I hesitate to think . . .”

“Curiously enough, Watson, had I not been there it probably would not have happened at all.”

“Why do you say that?

“Because Moriarty suspected that I was there, and even designed the whole plot in part as a confrontation between the two of us.”

“Surely he knew that you were there after he intercepted your message to Mycroft. But how the deuce did he know that you were there before?”

“Only a surmise, of course, Watson, since we did not talk. But I confirmed it on my return to England. I knew that my disguise as a Scandinavian naturalist in Tibet had some bad moments. I had become famous in some quarters for my scientific work, and despite my best efforts to avoid being photographed, on several occasions this indeed had happened. I knew that at least one of these photographs had appeared in print in an obscure Himalayan botanical journal devoted to the work of Joseph Hooker, the great Himalayan botanist. Unfortunately, you may recall that Colonel Moran, Moriarty’s chief henchman, still at large then, had specialised in the study of the plants of the Himalayas. I had to assume that he kept au courant and that he might have seen this photograph, recognised me, and communicated his suspicions about my whereabouts. Moriarty’s desire for revenge for his brother’s death was very great.”

“Intercepting your message was no accident, then.”

“No, indeed it was not, but reading it and understanding it was another matter, Watson, and here I must say I did not understand this part of the puzzle until I returned to England. I first attributed Moriarty’s success in deciphering the message to bad luck and his mathematical genius. That would have taken him to the point of revealing the text. But how could he have access to such a language as this one in order to read it? His success was complete and at once inexplicable. You will recall that I took peculiar pains to find a minor Himalayan dialect in which to write this language, to wit, the Kusunda.”

“Yes, indeed. Surely, Moriarty could not have known that language beforehand.”

Holmes smiled. “Here, Watson, under Lord Nelson’s statue, I shall finish the tale for you.”

We sat, watching the thinning crowd of late strollers. Holmes was far more calm now than he had been, but in the dark his eyes held their light, and I listened attentively.

“My first task upon my return to England was a visit to Brian Hodgson. Before I left Nepal, I knew that he was still alive, ninety-one years of age, still vigorous, but in declining health. I hoped that he would live until I returned so that I could clear up much of the mystery that related to the appearance of his “ghost.”