The Oriental Casebook of Sherlock Holmes (42 page)

“Notice the doors,” said the Pasha. “Jewellers must always have many ways of egress.” There were six silver doors in the room. The one directly in front of us opened and Abdul Latif, a tall thin man not unlike the Pasha in appearance, entered. Latif bowed to the Pasha and placed a small box in his hand. The Pasha opened it and handed it to Holmes.

“Here is the Moonstar of Mannar,” he said. “It is truly fit for a queen. You may test it in any way you like. Five hundred seventeen grains, a perfect sphere.”

It was indeed a beautiful thing, thought Holmes, one of the most exqusite examples of devil’s bait he had yet encountered. He studied it for several moments, then returned it to its box.

“It is indeed what it has been claimed to be,” he said.

“You may take it now,” said the Pasha.

Holmes took the box and put it in his small bag. “The first part of the work was now finished. If all went according to plan, the Pasha and I would board the
Susannah II
in a few hours and we would be on our way to Egypt, the Pasha with his freedom, and I with the pearl for Her Majesty,”

Holmes stopped here for a moment, as if deep in thought. “And here, Watson, I made a fateful decision. I chose not to rest with this simple solution. Rather than accompany the Pasha, I decided to send him on ahead with the armed escort to the
Susannah II
. I told him that I wished to attend to some unfinished business and would follow shortly.”

They parted just outside the shop. Holmes turned and entered the winding lanes of the Trincomalee bazaar. He had not gone far when he sensed that he was being followed. He ducked into a small shop for a moment, asking the proprietor if he could leave by the back entrance. Puzzled, the shopkeeper nevertheless led him to the back. As he went through the door, he saw Moran standing there, barring his way. He held a pistol, barely concealed by his vest, pointed directly at Holmes’s middle.

“Which way, Moran?” he said with some impudence.

“To the left,” answered Moran.

Moran’s sister soon joined them. They returned to the
Portes d’Argent
. Latif lay dead on the floor, his throat slit.

“Let us have the pearl,” said Franziska.

“With great pleasure, Madam,” said Holmes.

He handed the box to Moran, who opened it and gave it to his sister.

“For you, for now,” he said.

Franziska appeared mesmerised by the pearl, and she took no notice of anything about her.

“I have waited for this moment as if for an eternity,” said Moran. “When Moriarty went over the Reichenbach Falls, time stopped for me. All that I am—and ever will be – I owe to that great soul, Moriarty. I learned everything from him. His mind was the sharpest that ever thought on English soil. His heart the strongest and the cruellest. And you, you fiend, you destroyed that great genius.

“My sincere condolences, old fellow,” said Holmes, “but you must understand that I am of course of a very different view. Do not forget that Moriarty came after me at the falls. Had he pursued a more intelligent path, he would be alive today, albeit sitting in a London jail. But to bring our attention back to present matters, I do hope that you are aware, dear Colonel, that in taking the pearl you are stealing from an agent of the British Government. Rather foolhardy, I would say.”

“The pearl is now ours,” said Franziska, returning from her delirium. “Let us kill him here. Let us not miss this chance.”

At this moment Holmes was defenceless. Both Moran and his sister had guns trained on him, and he was foolishly unarmed. But again the unexpected happened. Suddenly all of the silver doors opened, and filing in one after another in total silence were the rebel soldiers of Rama IV, all armed with rifles. Neither Moran nor his sister moved.

“So, Moran,” said one of the men, “another trick.”

He slapped Moran across the face, pushed him to the floor, took his gun, and aimed it at Moran’s head.

“No!” shrieked Franziska.

The soldier saw the box in her hand and took it from her. His talons moved viciously. “What have we here?” he asked mockingly. He opened the box and held the pearl up so all could see it. “‘Well, so now we have it. Let us then amuse ourselves with it.”

He motioned to the three of them and they filed out between the leader and his men, their hands tied behind their backs. In an hour’s walk, they reached Foul Point, a cliff that extends into the sea to the south of the town of Trincomalee at a height of about three hundred feet above the sea.

“Here, Watson, in this most beautiful place, was enacted the final portion of the drama. Moran and I were led to within a few feet of the precipice. Opposite us on the ground sat some fifty of the rebel army, their leader, now identified as Rama IV, at their center. Franziska sat to his left, the ropes now taken from her hands in honour of her sex.”

King Rama stood up. “You English have brought our island to ruination. Your stench is everywhere. You have fouled our soil. I live only to rid the motherland of your pestilential presence.”

He paused. “But let us make this night pleasant for us. Mr. Holmes, honoured guest, let the royal festivities begin here this very night for your beloved queen.” He took the pearl and placed it on the ground between two small rocks.

“You will fight for the pearl—and your lives. Strip them! Bring the hoods!”

Holmes looked at me, a bemused look in his eye. “Moran and I, stripped to the waist, were to fight it out to the delight of the rebel army. There I was again, Watson, on the brink of an abyss with a mortal enemy bent on my destruction, the very one who had almost caused me to fall into the Reichenbach Falls.”

He stopped his account to light his pipe. “You have heard, no doubt, of the andabatarian gladiators of ancient Rome?”

“No,” I replied.

“A most interesting custom,” interjected Mycroft, lifting his heavy eyelids with difficulty, “which may have derived in the end from the ancient Indians. Hoods were placed over the gladiators’ heads to blind them. Without sight, they fought more amusingly and of course more cruelly, to the great glee of the Roman audience.”

“Never did I think that I would ever find myself in such a position,” said Holmes. “I suddenly thanked Heaven for my hours of practice walking and living in the dark. As soon as the hood was placed over my head, my ears, and my skin came alive. I knew that Moran, through far stronger than I, would be no match for me. My other senses, so patiently cultivated in my training in Benares, became so strong that they more than made up for the lack of vision. I could sense Moran’s slightest move. I could hear his breathing, the smallest sound that he caused, the smell of his breath and of his sweat. Without eyes I had no back, no front. All my senses were equal and functioned in all directions. Moran could not do the same. Indeed, as we began our duel, I made myself almost imperceptible. He could not hear my breath for I dropped it to an inaudible minimum. I could feel through my feet the vibrations of his heavy step, but he could not sense mine. I waited calmly as he moved. Purposely, I taunted him, so as to let him know where I was. Then, as he rushed towards me, I moved out of his way and gave him a kick to the stomach. It brought him down, stunned and writhing in pain. I pulled the hood from his head. “‘Come, my dear Colonel, this will give you a better chance.”

“Despite his pain, I could hear his fury rise, and so deftly did he move that he caught me by my foot. I escaped from his grasp, however, but felt a rush of pain as I extricated my leg. Moran rose and rushed towards me, but I dodged, and tripped him, throwing him off balance. As he fell, I delivered a hard blow to the jaw. He moaned as he hit the ground, panting in pain at my feet, no longer able to move. I tore the hood from my own head. I sat him up, and he revived.”

“You fiend,” he cried.

“Come, come, my dear fellow, one wins some, and one loses others. You unfortunately, have just lost a big one.”

It had been no contest. The great Moran had been unable to find Holmes. He raged in the dark, pummeling the air and growling like a bull. Subduing him required the skill that one uses in subduing a blinded elephant. He was still dangerous, but not for a practised hunter.

Rama and his men sat and did not move. Holmes rushed to the pearl. All watched helplessly as he took it and threw it as high and as far as he could against the darkening sky. For an instant it caught the light of the moon, then fell slowly downwards, glowing like a star before it began its descent into the void. Suddenly, Franziska stood up, a look of horror and greed on her face.

“No!” she shouted. Like some great Stymphalian bird, she leapt into the air, almost flying directly into Holmes, her hands and fingers spread wide, her sharp talons fully extended. He moved aside quickly and watched as she neared the precipice.

For a moment, the pearl seemed to hang in midair. It shivered for an instant, then continued its inevitable descent. Franziska stretched forwards. The tips of her talons touched it, and for an instant it appeared as though it would obey and come to her. Instead, she lost her balance and, with a frightful shriek, fell after the small white sphere as it disappeared into the abyss. Holmes looked down. There was nothing but the roar of the sea as it crashed on the rocks below.

Moran rushed to the precipice. Seeing only the sea, he turned towards Holmes, a shocked look of despair on his face. His defiance gone, he suddenly broke into a run towards the jungle and disappeared in seconds. Rama quickly despatched some men after him.

“It was only at that moment that the severe pain in my leg came to my consciousness,” said Holmes. “I could not walk. My leg felt broken, and I stumbled to my knees.”

Then in an angry voice, Rama IV barked an order: “Fling him into the sea.” Four men came forwards. They lifted Holmes by the limbs and began to swing him to and fro over the edge of the precipice. His injured leg groaned as he was swung in the air, and he swooned.

“I remembered nothing until I awoke in the dark. Thrown high into the air, I had come to rest on a soft ledge about fifteen feet from the top of the cliff. I lay there unable to move, listening only to the roar of the sea below. In the distance, I could see the lights of the
Susannah II
as it began its departure from Trincomalee for Egypt, carrying the Pasha to his homeland. As it disappeared in the night, I heard friendly voices. Gentle hands lifted me and carried me upwards. Gorashar’s soft voice entered my ears, and I blacked out for the second time.

“I awoke the following day in the fort of Trincomalee, or so I was told, since I had no recollection of how or how long I had come to be there. My head throbbed, and my leg was immobilised with heavy bandages. Gorashar sat at the window in a light doze. At the first sign of life from me, he was at my side.”

Holmes paused for a moment and sipped his drink slowly. I could say nothing, so horrifying was his account. Even Mycroft, who had remained impassive through most of the tale, seemed moved now by his brother’s pain and his nearly fatal encounter.

“It was a fortnight before I was able to travel. What I thought was a broken leg was fortunately only a badly torn muscle, and I was able to travel sooner than I had anticipated. Before I left, however, Vansittart informed me that the Pasha had escaped from the ship in the Gulf of Aden and had been met by a group of followers on the Arabian coast. He was now said to be deep in the Hadhramaut, planning his way back to Egypt. Wellesley, thinking that the Pasha still carried the pearl with him, had also boarded the ship, pretending to be me. He was caught in an attempt to rob the Pasha and was placed under arrest by the ship’s captain. But he too disappeared sometime during the voyage, and it was not sure at the time whether he had been lost at sea or he had gone ashore when the Pasha escaped. It was only several years later that I was able to deal with Mr. Arthur Wellesley. And as to the Pasha, we know that his efforts came to nought.”

By now it was late afternoon, just before five. As Holmes ended his tale, there was a great thunderclap, and the rains poured down heavily for a few moments. The heat had broken, and the late-afternoon sun now fell on a cooler and cleaner London.

Mycroft looked at his watch. “The festivities for the Queen,” he said, “have ended.” Let us therefore stand, for Her Majesty is about to enter Westminster.”

The few odd members of the club who remained stood with us.

Throughout the city, church bells rang. Then, as if by command, the stately strains of “God Save the Queen” rose in the city and floated through the window. It was as if the whole country sang in unison. Even in the staid chambers of the Diogenes Club, there appeared not to be a dry eye. . . . except for Holmes, who rose slowly, his face impassive, his jaw set. He said nothing, sang nothing.

“No new crown for the Queen, Watson,” said Mycroft when the music ended, “no pearl of course, either. But Her Majesty is well attired for the occasion, in brocade, hand-embroidered in gold in India.”

I thanked him for taking the time to relate his part in the Trincomalee affair. Holmes graciously helped his brother to his feet and walked him to his rooms.

As we left the club, Holmes said that he wished to walk alone for a while and suggested that we meet just before eight at Covent Garden for a performance of
Nabucco.
I agreed and watched him as he rapidly disappeared into the dwindling crowd.

THE MYSTERY OF

JAISALMER

I
HAVE ALREADY ALERTED THE READER OF THESE TALES
on several occasions to the deep melancholia suffered by Sherlock Holmes during the first months after his return to England in 1894. That depression began to abate, however, as soon as the opportunities for him to exercise his profession increased. Beginning with the case of the Norwood Builder in 1895, almost to the very end of the century, Holmes was constantly occupied. The need for me to keep his mind active waned, therefore, and the opportunities to learn of his adventures in the Orient became severely restricted. Often I would catch the merest glimpse of a tale, sometimes only odd fragments, out of which I could piece together nothing complete.