The Oriental Casebook of Sherlock Holmes (32 page)

I then ordered the search to be abandoned, the guard to the Potala to be relaxed, and that a tall stranger should be allowed to pass. I sat on the floor at my writing table, waiting for our meeting. I dozed and it must have been almost the middle of the night when he walked in. We stared at each other for what seemed to be an interminable period. I studied Sigerson’s face, his gaunt figure, his acquiline nose, and his penetrating eyes. He looked almost familiar to me, as if I had seen his photograph or read a description of him somewhere. His eyes stared into me, and I shall never forget the words that he uttered to me: “Well, Moorcroft . . .” It was the first time that I had heard my English name uttered in over sixty years. Sigerson then identified himself as the English detective Sherlock Holmes, and I remember little of the conversation that ensued, except that out of it came a lasting friendship and a useful alliance.

The conversation was violently interrupted, however. Dorjiloff had escaped his guard, and burst into my room, pointing a gun at us.

“Neither of you move,” he hissed. “I heard your little conversation before I entered. What a great piece of fortune! To remove from this life not only the fake regent Moorcroft but also the counterfeit diplomat Holmes!”

He took aim and was about to fire, when Holmes, moving with the speed and grace of a great cat, fairly flew through air, knocking Dorjiloff to the ground, the pistol flying across the room towards me. Holmes had the gold knife at Dorjiloff’s throat, but Dorjiloff’s formidable strength was too great, and Holmes found himself overpowered. Dorjiloff seized the knife and was about to plunge it into Holmes’s heart. I fired directly into Dorjiloff’s chest, killing him instantly. He slumped to the floor, Holmes grabbing the knife from his hand.

“A very close call, my dear Moorcroft, and one not so very long after the struggle at the Reichenbach Falls. It is enough to make one think of changing one’s profession,” he said catching his breath, “except that by persevering one has the opportunity to rid the world of a few of its devils.”

“He is the second man I have killed in my life, and I am not pleased at my action,” I said. “But such is my fate.”

I summoned the guard. Dorjiloff’s body was removed. Later that day, Dorjiloff’s remains were prepared according to Tibetan custom for offering to the vultures at the Place of Silence, and the Russian government was notified of his death and funeral. That very day, William Manning, the envoy to Lhasa, was escorted to the Indian border, whence he continued his journey to Delhi and then to England. He carried with him secret documents signed by me outlining in detail the events of the last several years and a declaration of hope for a period of tranquil relations with the British Empire. He was followed shortly thereafter by the princess Pema, who joined him in Bombay, from where they departed together for England.

Sherlock Holmes remained in Tibet for almost another two years, during which time he, in the guise of the Scandinavian naturalist that he had assumed at the outset, carried out a variety of studies. He and I met often but secretly, and we became close friends. At the end of this period, he left with Gorashar for Katmandu, the first stop on his long voyage back to England. He carries with him this note on my life, which, depending upon his wish, may see the light of day in some distant moment in the indeterminate future.

Holmes had sat at his desk immersed in work while I read the account contained in the Moorcroft document. He sensed my having finished the reading, and turning, said, with an affectionate smile, “Oh, by the way, Watson, the knife is now yours.”

THE GIANT RAT OF SUMATRA

I
N READING OVER THE MANY ACCOUNTS THAT
I
HAVE
placed before the public concerning the exploits of my friend Sherlock Holmes, I have noted that their pages contain many references to cases as yet unpublished. For reasons of discretion, almost all of these tales will forever remain untold. Only one of them, “The Adventure of the Second Stain,” did I decide long ago, with Holmes’s express permission, to publish at the appropriate moment.

Another of these cases, I now find, fits the present annals so very well that its publication in them is almost necessary if Holmes’s experiences in the Orient are to be complete. It took place during Holmes’s extensive voyages in the Dutch Indies. The reader may remember that I have alluded to it once before in the introductory words to the strange case of the Sussex Vampire. The story concerns the ship
Matilda Briggs
and the giant rat of Sumatra, a tale for which Holmes then believed that the world was not yet prepared. No case undertaken by him before or since shows so clearly the dreadful effects of the contact of primitive peoples with European civilisation.

In recounting this adventure, I have chosen to let Holmes speak for himself. The account is written in his own words, the manuscript of which he gave me after his return to England. Addressed to me, it was set down in his careful hand during some moments of calm in Singapore before he boarded a ship destined for the Levant. The prose is in Holmes’ usual laconic and terse style. After an initial reading, I placed it in the tin box that holds so many of his papers at Cox and Company in Charing Cross. Although Holmes has expressed to me a lingering doubt as to whether it should appear now, he reluctantly agreed that its inclusion in the present collection was most appropriate, indeed necessary, if his Oriental adventures were to be complete. The manuscript is undated and I present it here without change.

My dear Watson,

I have decided to record for you, and perhaps someday for the public for whom you have chronicled a number of my cases, an account of events that took place shortly before I arrived here in Singapore. The heat here is intolerable, and I can write only in the early hours of the morning, but I must finish before I leave.

In the spring of 1893, I travelled south in Bengal to Chittagong, where I had booked a passage to the Dutch Indies on a ship called the
Matilda Briggs
. I had chosen it because of the rather circuitous route it was scheduled to take to its ultimate destination, namely Batavia, the capital of the Dutch colonies. From Chittagong, the ship was to enter the Bay of Bengal, calling at the Andaman Islands, then at various ports of call, first along the southern coast of Burma near Pagan, then proceeding on to Malaya and Singapore before reaching the island of Java. The trip was to last at least three weeks and perhaps longer, for such freighters move according to no fixed schedule and often stop in remote and unexpected places. This suited me well, for I was in need of a period of calm after my exploits in the Indian Subcontinent.

The ship bore the American flag and, in addition to its great cargo, carried a dozen passengers. I was happy to learn as soon as we embarked that except for two people who figure in the events that follow, the remaining passengers were of no interest to me. Six of them consisted of an American missionary, a Mr. Blackton, and his family; another three were an aged Dutch couple and their crippled daughter returning to Batavia after a trip to Holland; the remaining two passengers I shall describe presently. Had I looked for intelligent stimulation, I should have been sorely disapppointed, but I sought only the calm of the sea to soothe my nerves and limbs, by now exhausted by India.

For this voyage, I had again changed my identity. This was merely an added precaution, since it was not unlikely that some of my cleverer enemies, notably the criminal Anton Furer, now aware of my existence, might try to follow me. I travelled as William Redfern, a person with no visible means of support, but one who professsed an amateur interest in the archaeology of Asia in general and of the Dutch Indies in particular. In order not to cause undue comment, I dined every evening with the captain and the other guests, but otherwise took my meals in my quarters, which were on the upper deck. The meals below were of tolerably short duration and, except for the occasional raucous behaviour of some of the American children, they were pleasant enough. The captain was a large Swede, whose overwhelming interest was first the sea, and secondly the food that was served.

It was towards the end of what was an uneventful voyage that I came to know two passengers, Baron Maupertuis, of the Netherlands-Sumatra Company, and his wife, who, as I was to learn very quickly, was of English blood. It was not long into our first conversation that I realised that she was Ellen, née Hodgson, the sister of the same Brian Hodgson, the tale of whose ghost I may one day relate to you. The Maupertuises were a witty, diplomatic couple, and although I ordinarily tire of such company, I found their presence a relief from what had by then become the tedium of a hot and eventless voyage. I had ventured ashore on several occasions, however, particularly at Pagan, to satisfy my curiosity about archaeological monuments, and spent my late evenings in writing up my notes about them. You may note here the work “Ruins of Old Burma” by William Redfern, a monograph that was published on my return, which was entirely the result of this journey.

Baron Maupertuis was descended from an old Dutch family of Utrecht and had been in the service of his country for many years. After a term in Amsterdam, he had been assigned as Resident to the court of the Maharajah of Jogyakarta, and it was there that he and his wife were to reside.

On the last day of the voyage, they extracted a promise from me that I would visit and spend a few days with them in central Java. I agreed readily, for the voyage had taken far longer than I had expected. I was frankly bored now by the sea, aching for a fresh place for the eye and a new problem for the brain.

We parted in Batavia, they continuing on to Jogyakarta, and I staying on in this large city to see what I could of it in the short time that I had allotted to the task. It was the usual teeming Oriental metropolis, hot and filled with smoke like much of the East, but without that sense of mystery that I found in Calcutta. Islam had cleansed this once Hindu Buddhist island of much of its earlier beliefs and with it much of its artistic wealth. As throughout Asia, the Moslem armies and converts had defaced or destroyed much of what had lain in their path. After a week of desultory wandering, I decided to leave, the high point of my visit having been the apprehension of a rather silly pickpocket who, thinking to rob my purse, nearly received a broken wrist.

I was rested from the voyage and now felt my old energy returning, despite the oppressive heat. So far, my visit had proved uninteresting. If nothing else, however, I wanted to visit the ancient monuments of Java before I moved on. It was then that I sent word to Baron Maupertuis that I should be arriving in a few days in Jogyakarta and that I hoped that his invitation was still open. I received a reply the same day, saying that I would be most welcome to stay as their guest as long as I should like. I sent a wire with an immediate reply of acceptance.

I journeyed to Jogyakarta by train and was met at the railway station by the Baron’s servants. Soon after, I was ensconced in his palatial abode. The Residence is a large Dutch bungalow surrounded by wide gardens in the Amsterdam style. It was within walking distance of the kraton, or palace of the Maharajah, a large compound that dominated the city and stood at its very centre.

It was on one evening of my stay that I obtained my first glimpse of the society of Jogyakarta. The Maupertuises gave a lavish dinner party, to which the Maharajah himself paid a short visit. He was by now a very old man, very thin and frail, but his eyes were still bright, and his regal air commanded attention despite his advanced age and feeble manner. Much of the merchant community was in attendance, particularly those who made large fortunes in these tropical islands. Their round faces and stomachs told me all that I needed to know, and I soon found myself tiring of the glitter.

Maupertuis must have noted my discomfort, for at one point he grabbed me by the sleeve and pulled me across the room to a far corner, in which sat a rather professorial gentleman whom I had not noticed before.

“This is the gentleman I met on our last voyage, of whom I have already spoken,” said Maupertuis, introducing me. “He is very interested in the archaeological remains on the islands. And this,” he said turning to me, “is Professor Van Ruisdael of Leiden.”

Van Ruisdael greeted me with a slight nod. He did not rise, I think not out of any innate rudeness but rather because his bulk made it difficult for him to move out of his chair. He was an enormous man even seated, one who projected immense intellectual and physical energy. His face was round, his head bald with a fringe of long, dark brown hair, and he had small, dark but penetrating eyes. He motioned me into the chair next to him and we began to talk.

Van Ruisdael until then I had known only by name. He was one of the leading archaeologists of Europe and was by training a paleontologist, one who had made significant discoveries in the Pyrenees with regard to early mammals. He had been asked by the Dutch government to lead the archaeological explorations of the East Indies, and had been in Java for over three years.