The Perils of Sherlock Holmes (2 page)

“S
tand aside, Holmes!” said I, gripping my stick in the defensive position familiar to my service in India and Afghanistan. “Here is a proper cut-throat.”

Sherlock Holmes and I were returning from a constitutional which I as his physician had prescribed. For a fortnight, my friend and fellow-lodger had not ventured outside our smoke-filled digs, even to breathe the comparatively less sinister air of greater London, and I feared more than usually for his health.

His confinement comprised an investigation into the mysterious death of Edmond Warworthy, Bart., whose solution Holmes eventually discovered in an entry made some thirty years previously in his journals. These ran to fifty-six volumes dated between 1 January 1832 and 11 August 1888, the day upon which Sir Edmond died.

Our evening out was a balmy one in early September. A trade wind had extinguished the noxious yellow fog that is so typical of autumn in our metropolis, and a sunset of staggering beauty was in full cry over Middlesex, painting the blackest chimneys the colour of claret. However, it’s a fair wind that blows nobody bad; for a pleasant climate and creeping shadows provide a hunting ground for two-legged predators in search of complacent strollers with fat purses. Therefore I was alert when a fellow shamming sleep stirred suddenly in the darkness beyond the fanlight of our Baker Street home, and issued the warning recorded above.

In appearance he was of a type not uncommon in that cosmo-politan city: swarthy and bearded, dark as hickory, and swathed in the robes and hooded mantel, called a
burnoose
, which are associated with the Muslims of the Near East. Huddled as he’d been in this voluminous raiment, he might have been taken for a bundle of discarded bedclothes but for the way the whites of his eyes glistened as we approached. When he moved, I prepared to smite him before he could produce a razor-edged dirk and demand our valuables in return for our lives.

Holmes seized my wrist in his iron grip. “Calm yourself, old fellow. This may be a client.”

“A client for the jailkeeper in Bow Street, you mean.” I held my ground.

“You, there,
Haji
! Kindly oblige a pair of infidels and join us in the light.”

For the space of thirty seconds the man in the shadows did not stir, although he continued to watch us like some beast on the edge of a campfire. Then, slowly and with queer dignity, he arose with a rustle and stepped into full view.

I tightened my hold on my trusty Penang Lawyer; for the man was a particularly wicked-looking specimen of Arab. Standing slightly above the medium height, he wore a coal-black beard only a shade darker than his burnished flesh, against which those startling eye-whites shone like scaled pearls, their nut-coloured irises glaring balefully. As if to put the fine point on his devilish countenance, the brigand displayed a vicious scar on either cheek, sunken with age and puckered at the edges, the less noticeable of the pair fully as long as a man’s hand is wide. The obvious conclusion, that his face had been transfixed by some savage blade, made me shudder, as if I had witnessed the event at firsthand.

The silken sash he had tied about his waist, red once but now faded like the scars, suggested the ideal girdle for a weapon—not now in evidence, but quite likely concealed somewhere upon his person. I daresay that in that sprawling city of four millions, there was not one who could inspire greater dread.

“A hundred thousand pardons,
effendim
. These ancient eyes are no longer what once they were. The low cur who owns them could not be certain he was in the presence of the great
sahib
detective until he was near enough to smell the breath of the camel.”

This fulsome speech, delivered in faultless English, was heavy with the guttural but not unmusical accent of the deserts and oases of popular romance. Of his age, at least, he spoke the truth. The folds and creases in his leathery hide were at the lowest estimate sixty years in the creation. I thought it probable the vain old fellow dyed his whiskers with lampblack.

“I am Sherlock Holmes—in the event there is more than one great
sahib
detective living on this street. This is Dr. Watson, upon whose discretion you may rely as surely as the Bank of England. Whom have I the honour of addressing?”

The fellow bowed whilst performing the pretty
salaam
gesture with his right hand. “Most certainly, respected one, the honour belongs to me. I am called Sheik Abdullah.”

“Sheik, if you will allow me the impertinence.” Holmes extended a hand and, to my surprise, grasped the Arab’s chin and gently turned his face to this side and that, exposing each of the man’s scars to the light. “The left is the more pronounced. Would you concur, Doctor, that this is the exit wound?”

“I would. Most tissue damage occurs on the way out.”

“Torn palate, Sheik?”

“Yes,
effendim
. And four back teeth for Allah.”

“The entry is as clean as an incision. The projectile, then, passed through on the instant, which is seldom the case with anything as long as a conventional spear or as clumsy as a sword or sabre. A javelin, perhaps. Somali?”

“Wonderful, respected sir! I was chief of bearers on safari. Savages attacked us for our goods. Through the grace of the Prophet, blessings and peace be upon him, I fought my way to safety. Alas, others were not so favoured.”

The oily obsequiousness of this response made me distrust the stranger all the more, for I had seen surprise, admiration, and suspicion succeed one another in his eyes as Holmes deduced the details of his injury. I found myself wondering if he was not himself the savage behind the attack he spoke of, injured by an accomplice in the heat of action.

“In any case, the affair is years in the past,” said Holmes. “The wounds are long healed. It can hardly be the reason for your visit.”

“It is not. I have come to consult you upon a matter of grave importance.”

“Then let us continue this conversation upstairs. A London street is not the marketplace in Cairo.”

“Is it wise, Holmes?” I could not help whispering. “We know nothing of this fellow’s reputation.”

Grim amusement stirred my friend’s spare features. “I might venture to say that were we to know very much more, we would think it even less wise.”

With this cryptic remark, he led the way up the well-trodden steps to the cluttered sitting-room whence so many adventures had been launched.

Wordlessly, and with (it seemed to me) a disregard for invitation that ran counter to the humility he sought to express, Sheik Abdullah embarked upon a self-guided tour of the many curious items which were placed carelessly upon exhibit in our homely parlour. His interest in certain things at the expense of others was odd. The Danish dagger that had featured prominently in the Blackwell murder case received only cursory attention, whilst the shabby Persian slipper where Holmes kept his coarse tobacco became an object of some five minutes’ close scrutiny. He studied the weave of the hanging basket chair at length, but ignored completely the Borgia ring, for which Holmes had declined a princely offer from the British Museum. Throughout, the detective retained his bemused expression. He suggested a libation. A request for plain water followed.

Our singular guest accepted the glass with effusive gratitude, then went through the elaborate ritual of thanks to the powers of Mohammedism before imbibing. Holmes watched, evidently appreciating the performance.

“Now that you’ve partaken of our hospitality, Sir Richard, perhaps you will provide an explanation for this show of false colours.”

The man in Arabian garb choked, coughed, and lowered the glass, using the loose sleeve of his robe to sponge the drops from his beard. He stared at Holmes. Then his face broke into a sinister smile.

“I see that I am not misled as to your abilities,” said he, in a deep voice in which there was now no trace of the Orient. “Pray, tell me where I betrayed myself. In another time and place, the answer may save my life.”

“I suspected the truth when I examined your scars. They are more famous than you realise, having spent so much time in the far reaches of Empire and beyond. When I accurately assigned them to a Somali javelin and saw your reaction, I was emboldened further, but withheld certainty until you committed the blunder of accepting and drinking from a vessel with your left hand. No Muslim worthy of his faith would do that.”

“Blast!” He glared at the offending hand. “I’ve been away too long from the Koran. I should have known, when my girdle refused to tie in the old place, that I would be rusty as well as fat. Because I no longer trust the public journals, I assumed your press notices were exaggerations. I beg you to accept the apologies of a retired officer, if not precisely a gentleman.”

Impatient and disgruntled, I interposed myself. “I confess I’m at sea, Holmes. What is the name of this fellow, of whose famous scars I was ignorant only moments ago?”

“Really, Watson, it amazes me when fellow members of a guild fail to recognise one another. An old adventurer-journalist such as yourself must be aware of Captain Sir Richard Francis Burton, author of
The Arabian Nights
and discoverer of the source of the River Nile.”

“Flattering, but inaccurate upon both counts,” protested the other. “The Nile is John Speke’s, may his troubled soul find rest, and I merely translated the text of the thousand-nights-and-a-night: The authors are dust these seven hundred years. I shall admit to Lake Tanganyika, and two volumes chronicling my experiences during a pilgrimage to Mecca, among other trifles. My disguise upon that occasion was superior, or I should not be here to boast of it.”

As he spoke, our guest removed his hood, exposing gray hair cropped close to his skull and a band of unstained skin at the hairline. It was a remarkable head, with advanced frontal development, fierce brows, and those unique scars, which were even more pronounced without the distraction of a disguise.

“Great Scott!” I exclaimed. “I’ve followed each installment of the
Nights
as it has appeared. Astounding.” I grasped the hand he’d extended, only to break the grip when a fresh and disturbing association presented itself. “But, did you not translate also—” I left off, blushing to pronounce the disreputable title.

“The
Kama Sutra
. I may as well own to that as well. It cost me a club membership.”

“There are no forbidden frontiers to an explorer,” Holmes said. “Now, Sir Richard, there is the siphon, and there the basket chair you admired. Make free with both and tell us the reason for your fancy dress.”

Burton declined the whisky, explaining that as long as he wore Muslim garments he would not blaspheme the faith, but curled himself into the chair in the same extra-Occidental fashion that my friend was wont to adopt. The old adventurer was exceptionally supple for a man nearing his threescore and ten.

“You will find, Holmes, as you continue to acquire notoriety, that people do not always conduct themselves in your presence as they would under most circumstances. It’s an intolerable nuisance, as it slows the process of character judgement. An incognito visit seemed the best way to save time. As things turned out, I was right. You are indeed the man for the job I have in mind.”

Holmes, seated in his favourite armchair, lit his pipe and said nothing. I noted with interest that he had selected the old black clay he preferred when in a contemplative humour.

Burton continued. “I am at present only a temporary resident of London. My leave expires next month, when I return to my post at the British Consulate in Trieste. Meanwhile I am engaged in a number of projects, one of which is the translation of documents which came into my hands in 1860, when I was on the Ivory Coast. That is to say, I
was
so engaged, until four weeks ago; but I shall come to that. How much do you know, Holmes, about ancient culture in Egypt?”

“Rather less than I do about modern criminal enterprise in Brixton. Do the subjects intersect?”

“Possibly, although I’m uncertain about Brixton. The document is a transcription in Second Century Aramaic from a hieroglyphic scroll that was burned in the great fire that consumed Alexandria. I translated just enough of it into English to form the conclusion that it provides explicit directions to the tomb of a Pharaoh who ruled during the Eighteenth Dynasty.”

At this point, Holmes, to my chagrin and Burton’s astonishment, yawned.

“Forgive me, Sir Richard, but unless the Pharaoh was done to death I confess little interest in the affair thus far. The good doctor can enlighten you upon the futility of instructing me in anything not related to the science of deduction.”

“Just so,” said our guest; but it was plain he regretted denying himself the reinforcement of strong spirits. “As to the nature of the king’s demise, I am without illumination. He expired before his twentieth year, but beyond that I know nothing save that he was a son of Akhenaton, the Sun King. The boy’s name was Tutankhamen—King Tut, if you find the diminutive less challenging to pronounce.”

“They ring no bells, either of them.”

“Nor should they. They do not appear on any of the royal lists which have come down to us. For that matter, the extent to which he was stricken from history emboldens me to hope that his burial vault is undefiled. It will come as no surprise to you that grave-robbing was not invented by Burke and Hare. To date, archaeologists digging in the Valley of the Kings have failed to unearth a single tomb that was not stripped of its treasures centuries before Christ. Mummies, yes. Pottery, certainly. Ancient writings invaluable to historians. But not one scrap of the gold and precious gems that were buried with the monarchs to comfort them in the Hereafter.”

“Perhaps they weren’t there to begin with. Pilfering servants were not invented in our age either.”

“I reject the premise. They could not
all
have been criminals.”

The detective’s lids drooped further—a sure sign that his interest was awakened at last. “Pray continue. But please confine your narrative to the present century. What has become of the document?”