Mandala of Sherlock Holmes (18 page)

19

The Dark One

It’s nearly six o’clock,’ I whispered, consulting my silver turnip watch. ‘Why hasn’t the bally crowd turned up yet?’

‘One really cannot be expected to time a public riot as finely as a dinner appointment,’ said Holmes, a trifle sardonically. He was leaning back comfortably on a pile of grain sacks in the corner of the room, smoking his pipe. ‘Tsering is a reliable fellow. Give him a littie time. He will come.’

I looked out of the small, rough window. Across the narrow street I could see the shadowy walls of the Imperial Chinese legation looming in the twilight. Mr Holmes and I were in a small store room at the back of an inn by the Kashgar serai, in the southern part of Lhassa, where the camel caravans from Turkestan — the beasts being of the shaggy, two humped species,
Camelus bactrianus
— ended their journey. Kintup had managed to secure this very convenient accommodation, just a stone’s throw from the rear of the Chinese legation. The Tungan innkeeper had been informed that Mr Holmes and I were Ladakhi merchants waiting for a caravan to Yarkand.

Though the room was really not of a habitable standard —in fact it was filthy,verminous, and offensive to the olfactory organ — it was an ideal starting point for our venture.

But this stroke of luck had been offset by the bad news that the Lama Yonten’s agent was unable to come and brief us on the layout of the legation grounds. The duties of the servants had increased two-fold with the arrival of the Dark One, and the agent had feared that his absence would be noticed. Still, he had agreed to meet us at the rear outer-wall of the legation as soon as the demonstration started, and lead us in through the trade entrance, which was usually securely barred and bolted.

And so we waited. I sat back, and watched the faint glow from Mr Holmes’s pipe across the darkness of the room. As the darkness increased, this solitary light appeared to be like a faint star, alone in the vast emptiness of infinite space.

Suddenly, for no obvious reason, I felt very much alone and very afraid. And then that part of me, the rational, prudent part, that always pleaded for peace, stability and good sense (so far suppressed by the other part of me, the one that invariably got me into dam’-tight places) now rushed to the fore.

What in the name of Herbert Spencer was I, a respectable scientific man doing, embarking on this mad criminal venture —stepping into the veritable ‘Jaws of Death’ as it were, when I had only just managed to squeak out of them the last time I was here in Thibet? Of course, I sympathised tremendously with the plight of the Grand Lama, but when all’s said and done, Imperial China is Imperial China; and one did not go around challenging a sinister and vindictive institution like that with impunity —especially when it was served by frightening blighters who impaled good men on levitating cutlery with mere flicks of the finger. And anyway, how could I, a lowly subordinate in a minor department of the GOI, be expected to help the bally Thibetans when even Sherlock Holmes, the world’s greatest detective, the foremost upholder of justice, had just yesterday afternoon pleaded to be relieved of the task. Well he had, hadn’t he? Hold on a minute though… then why the deuce an’ all did he change his mind about helping to protect the Grand Lama? And how the Dickens had he known that the Grand Lama would be needing help last night —at the very precise moment he needed it too. Ooooh, Shaitan!

For a few minutes I was rather overwhelmed by the ramifications of my questions. But then I realised that I was absolutely incapable of answering any of them. So I proceeded to ask him,
ex tacito,
of course. He did not reply immediately, but drew long on his pipe, which burned brightly. By its glow I saw a shadowy face that was much troubled.

‘You would not call me an irrational man, would you, Hurree?’

‘Of course, not, Sir. If I may say so you are the most rational, most scientific man I have ever had the privilege of meeting.’

‘Yet reason or science had nothing to do with what I did last night.’

‘Please?’

‘I just
knew.
One moment I was smoking my last pipe for the night and thinking about our meeting with the Lama Yonten, and the next moment I knew for certain that a dangerous assassin was going to enter the Grand Lama’s Summer Palace.’

‘Like a premonition, Sir?’

‘There was nothing vague about it. The singular thing was the absolute assurance I felt about this startling revelation. Yet there was no way to explain it in logical terms. It was a most peculiar experience.’

‘Subsequent events proved you right, Mr Holmes.’

‘Yes, and that makes it all the more disturbing.’

‘But it did make you change your mind about helping the Grand Lama?’

‘Well, it hurts my pride to leave unresolved bits of business lying around, Hurree. It is a petty feeling no doubt, but it hurts my pride. Hulloa! Hulloa! What’s that?’

He got up from the sack of grain and quickly went over to the window. From the distance the rumbling sound of many people shouting was now audible.

‘From what I can hear, Tsering seems to have a good-sized mob there. Is the dark lantern shielded?’

‘Yes, Mr Holmes.’

‘Good. Well, Hurree, before we start, I just want to say that I am very glad of your company tonight. Some situations in life are best faced with a true friend by your side.’

I was most touched by Mr Holmes’s expression of affection and trust.

For a moment he gripped my right hand firmly in his. He then turned quickly and walked out of the room. I followed suit.

The main hall-cum-eating room of the inn was empty, and so was the kitchen. Everybody had gone out into the street to see what the commotion — which was getting louder and more threatening — was all about. From the black, grimy kitchen we stepped through a back door and into the alley at the back of the Chinese legation. A strong odour of camel dung and urine wafted through to us from the main serai grounds. At the east end of the alley which joined the Saddle-maker’s Street, we could see a large boisterous procession of Thibetans carrying flaming torches and yelling threats and abuse. They poured past the alley to the front of the Chinese legation. Mr Holmes and I pressed ourselves against the back wall, taking advantage of the shadows, till the crowd had moved past. As the last of the Thibetans disappeared, Mr Holmes and I sidled by the wall to the other end of the alley and looked around. There was no sign of our contact. We waited.

By the sound of it the demonstration was hotting up. The crowd was lustily shouting fierce slogans denouncing the outrages perpetrated by the dog of an Amban. They sounded jolly obstreperous though, and what with their flaming torches and all, I hoped that Tsering would be able to keep control of the situation. Suddenly Mr Holmes stiffened. ‘Don’t make a sound,’ he whispered. ‘There’s someone by the corner there. It could be our man.’

For the life of me I could not see anyone in that gloom, but as I had occasion to observe before, Mr Holmes had the most extraordinary powers of nocturnal vision. I tiptoed behind him as he moved swiftly and silently forward. An anxious whisper stopped us dead in our tracks. ‘Here. Come this way,’ a dark figure stepped forward out of the shadow of the wall and beckoned urgently to us.

As we got there I noticed a low door built into the legation wall. It was open. By it stood a small chap in dark-blue cotton suit of Chinese design and a black skull cap. He looked nervously around him like a scared rabbit, his prominent buck teeth emphasising the resemblance. ‘Are you from the Lama Yonten?’ he uttered in a croaking whisper.

‘Yes.’

‘Come in this way, quickly. I must close the door before someone notices.’

We entered a large courtyard filled with leather-covered chests, like the ones used to transport brick tea from China to Thibet. Probably the Amban supplemented his salary by trading in brick tea, which the Thibetans regarded as a delicacy. By the courtyard were some houses and behind them the main legation building, which was two stpries high. Dark outiines of armed spldiers could be seen moving about on the roof of this building and on the outer wall in the front. Our diminutive guide crouched behind a pile of chests and signalled us to do the same.

‘Now listen carefully. I have very littie time. All the Amban’s soldiers are at the front to prevent the mob from breaking down the gates. Everyone else has gone to the main legation building as it is the most defensible.’

‘Where are the quarters occupied by the Amban’s special guest? The one that arrived a few weeks ago.’

‘Merciful Kuan-yin,’ the man whispered very agitatedly. ‘Keep away from him.’

‘Where are they?’ insisted Sherlock Holmes firmly, holding the man tightly by the shoulders.

‘It’s that large house … there on the left … the one nearest the wall. But I have to go now, the other servants might notice my absence.’

‘You have been of great help,’ said Holmes, releasing the timid fellow.

‘Take care. And don’t go anywhere near
him!
he croaked, before scurrying off across the courtyard and vanishing into a patch of shadows between some houses.

I was rather shaken, I admit, by his dire warnings, and conspicuous display of fear. But Mr Holmes seemed totally unaffected by any such terrors. Silently but surely he made directiy for the house that had been pointed out as the Dark One’s quarters. I followed close at his heels. The house seemed to be unoccupied, for there were no lights shining from the windows, and no sounds of any kind either. As soon as we got to the house, Mr Holmes set about trying to open a window. With the aid of a springy dagger (which he had borrowed from Kintup) and a bit of stiff wire, he quickly managed to undo a catch and ease open a frame. He performed the task with a practised dexterity that in anyone else would be sufficient cause for grave suspicions. Once inside the room he pulled the heavy wool curtain over the window.

‘Let’s have some light then, Hurree.’

I slid open the shield of the lantern. We were in a small antechamber, empty save for a few small chairs around the sides. One door led through a short corridor to the front do6r. I pushed open the other to discover a large and opulent study. The room was lit by two oil lampions of Imperial Dragon design; one hung on brass chains from the ceiling, while the other rested on a small side-table. Thick damask curtains prevented the light from spilling through the windows. The study was furnished in a peculiar mixture of Oriental and European styles. The walls were covered with expensive brocade drapes on which hung heavy giltframed portraits of Manchu dignitaries in court dress. The cupboards, bookshelves, chairs and tables were made of black ebony of exquisite workmanship. The finest piece was a large desk with legs shaped like lion’s paws, with a set of drawers fitted with jade knobs.

‘I don’t like it,’ Holmes whispered, putting his lips near my ear. ‘Something’s not quite right here. Anyhow, we have no time to lose. Let’s start with that.’ He pointed to the desk.

We had just opened the third drawer when I felt a slight draft against my back, and turned around. Framed in the faint light at the doorway was the shadow of a crooked man, holding something in his hand.

‘Perhaps this is what you are looking for,’ he said in a low hiss that I felt I had heard somewhere before. Two Chinese soldiers in black uniforms and turbans emerged from behind him and stepped into the room, their rifles poised for action. The crooked man shuffled into the room dragging his right leg. The light revealed a cadaverous-looking blighter with a bent, broken body and a lame right leg, somewhat incongruously dressed in the rich silk robes of a high mandarin. His face was badly distorted, especially the mouth, from which a little trickle of saliva dripped. His complexion was a sickly white, and his eyes, deep within their hollow sockets, seemed to burn with a passionate light. But the most remarkable thing about him was the great bulge of his forehead, which moved and twitched on the occasions when he seemed to feel some great emotion.

‘Moriarty!’ cried Holmes.

My skin went cold at the name.

‘Yes, it is I, Holmes.’ His lips twisted in an ugly smirk. ‘Come now, why do you not greet your old adversary more warmly. Are you so surprised to see him alive?’

Shocked as he must have been by the unexpected resurrection of his nemesis, Sherlock Holmes reacted with great composure.

‘I must confess to just that,’ admitted Holmes coolly. ‘All the same, if you don’t mind my saying so, you have not been wonderfully improved by your recent experiences.’

‘Aaah … you mock me, Holmes. But you will pay … It was a wicked, cruel thing to throw me over the precipice … wicked! But did you know the great service you performed for me that day? You are puzzled? You think I am babbling … then listen. As I fell into space … and looked down on death, my memories suddenly came back to me. I remembered my true self … and I remembered my power … yes … my great powers. It was almost too late. I hit the side of a rock-face … and smashed my hip … my leg … my face … but then … aaaah … my power surged through me. So now I live … broken and in pain … but I live. You Holmes …’

‘… will, no doubt, go the way of all flesh,’ said my friend philosophically, moving a step forward. Immediately both the guards raised their weapons.

‘No, no, Holmes. You will stay very still. You have so cleverly managed to give Colonel Moran the slip on every previous occasion. But this time, since you are dealing with me, his master, I must insist on a very different conclusion. So, both of you, take out your weapons … slowly. Put them on the ground … now move slowly to the other side of the room. Very good. Chen Yi, pick up the guns.’

While one guard trained his weapon on us the other stepped forward and picked up our pistols and stuck them in his belt. Moriarty hobbled painfully across the room to the ebony desk, and seated himself behind it. He then tossed the scroll he was carrying onto the desk.

‘So you seek the Great
Mandala.
Much good will it do you, even if you have it. Fool. What can you know of its great secret, when you never even knew mine. You thought I was a genius when actually I was a man whose mind was shattered … memories lost and mental powers reduced to only the intellectual functions. But just that paltry fraction of my power — and a little help from my Chinese friends, who helped to establish me in Europe to avenge themselves against the nations that had humiliated China — was sufficient to create the greatest criminal empire in the world. What can you do against me now? Now that my powers have been restored to me.’