Read Sherlock Holmes and the Giant Rat of Sumatra Online
Authors: Paul D. Gilbert
Sherlock Holmes and the Giant Rat of Sumatra (6 page)
âYour father would seem to be both brave and very wise. You must be most proud of his achievements,' Holmes quietly suggested.
âOh, indeed I am, sir!' Collier agreed enthusiastically. âThe adventures that he is describing here are not unique among the journals of his travels. I have retained every one of them.'
âYet you never sought to emulate him nor accompany him upon these adventures?'
âOh, Mr Holmes, although I have inherited his enquiring mind and his fervent interest in ancient religions, my interests are of a more academic bent, and, being in possession of a keen attention for detail, I am certain that my researches into the secrets of the âWaiting Stones' will fully occupy me for some time to come. Perhaps, one day, I shall take up my father's preoccupations and accompany him to areas further away than Cornwall.'
âAre there no other reasons why you have not yet done so?' Holmes asked this question in a tone that suggested that he already knew the answer before it was asked.
Collier hesitated for a moment before he replied, and when he did so he appeared to be more than just a little bit abashed. âYou are quite right, of course, Mr Holmes. As befits a man of his many talents and achievements, my father is endowed with a somewhat larger-than-life personality. Although I have a deep affection for him and not a little admiration, I do find him overbearing over a period of time, to the extent that I could scarcely imagine being in close proximity to him for what could be months on end. Although I take a keen interest in his discoveries, I try not to let it detract from my own endeavours.'
âYour father does seem to take greats pains in involving you in every aspect of his journey and I thank you for your honesty.' Holmes casually waved his hand to indicate that Collier should now continue reading from his father's second letter.
As we left the Bay behind us the winds dropped dramatically and the
Diomedes
steadied as the waves fell to a tolerable level. Indeed, as we struck out down the west coast of Africa, we saw some warm sunlight and we were soon allowed back on deck.
When we did so the appalling effects of the storm were immediately evident and it was decided that some timber was
needed to repair our shattered central mast. Under normal circumstances the remaining masts might have proved sufficient, however several of the remaining sails had been torn asunder and the air pressure had now risen so sharply that we were positively becalmed and making little progress.
Since we were now lying off of the Ivory Coast, Captain Economides decided to dispatch a small landing party to secure the necessary timber, shards of which appeared to line the water's edge in rich abundance. He intended to execute the repairs as we progressed, in order to reduce the inevitable delay to our arrival at the Cape.
And so our sorry craft limped towards the Victoria and Albert docks a full sixty-nine days after our departure from London, drawing sixteen feet of water, still nursing our wounded mast. I congratulated Economides on his steadfast seamanship and then ensured that I was aboard the first dinghy to make for shore.
As you might well imagine, upon disembarking I wasted little time in securing for myself a small, but comfortable room, furnished with a deep bath and plenty of hot water. The revitalizing effect was completed by my consumption of the greater part of a more than acceptable Scotch whisky. I then stretched myself out upon a far larger bed than I had been used to aboard ship, there to remain for a full three days!
Once I was suitably recovered, I lost little time in tracking down my old friend, a former army officer, whom I may have mentioned in my earlier journals, namely Lieutenant Marcus Harrison VC. His large house, set back in the lush hills above the Cape, was not hard to find and a friendly Kaffir who laboured in Harrison's hugely successful livery business, leased me a small trap for a nominal rate.
It was my intention to utilize my time during the period of the refit to the
Diomedes
, by striking out into Natal to see if any news might be gained of Charlotte's mission.
Ever since the defeat of the Zulus on the banks of the sacred River Umvolosi and the subsequent death of their warlike King, Cettiwayo in '84, Zululand has been largely subdued. The occasional insurrection, led by King Divi Zulu, reminded the British of the Zulus' warrior history, however he had been exiled to the island of St Helena, ironically when you consider that Divi Zulu was a direct descendant of Chaka, the âBlack Napoleon'. Last year Zululand was formally incorporated into British Natal.
As a consequence the Zulus have now swapped their lethal assegai
1
for the plough and trowel and an ever increasing army of would-be immigrants are now being actively encouraged to seek their fortune in this newly pacified land. This was where Harrison and his livery came in. The only form of transport that was suitable for these immigrants and their chattels, to travel over this particular terrain, happened to be Harrison's large ox-drawn carts.
Harrison kindly offered me the use of his finest cart and pair and, together with three of his Kaffirs, I struck out to the north on the following morning towards what had once been known as the land of the Zulus! Before too long we were clear of the outskirts of Cape Town and as we headed northward we were at once surrounded by a range of magnificent, undulating hills that rose and fell like gigantic waves.
I must confess to having been unable to suppress an intense thrill of excitement at the thought of fifty thousand assegais¹ crashing against fifty thousand shields and their thunderous roar echoing around the very hills through which I was now travelling. It was a sobering thought that, in the very recent past, the impis
2
of Cettiwayo had prepared to descend upon their doomed victims from these spectacular rolling peaks.
Now, however, the only sound to be heard was the creaking of my cart's wheels and the occasional snort from one of my oxen as they toiled towards the Buffalo River, the former border with
Zululand. Occasionally we came upon a small Zulu farmstead, but the only reminder of their former ferocious legacy would be a decorative cowhide shield hanging over a doorway or a forbidding-looking young man in a leopard-skin robe tending his cattle. All traces of the once influential witch doctors, that I had come so far to see, had all but disappeared as a result of the new regime strictly forbidding the practising of their ancient arts.
However, my priority remained the discovery of news of our Charlotte and in that quest you should be glad to hear I was considerably more successful. I discovered from Lieutenant Harrison that among the more influential missions was the one at Lovedale run by its Scottish Presbyterian principal, the Reverend Joseph Stewart. He was a gruff, though affable gentleman who was most passionate about his work and who genuinely loved the people he was working amongst.
Over a glass of lemonade on his shaded veranda, Stewart explained to me how it was that Lovedale's very success had prompted Charlotte to move ever northward, into Matabeleland, where she felt that her efforts and experience would be put to better use. Indeed the opening of the hospital made her feel redundant and, reluctantly, Stewart gave his blessing to her future endeavours.
Stewart receives regular news of the progress at the new mission and assured me that Charlotte remains in good health and in high spirits. He promised to impart news of my visit to her and I turned my cart towards the Cape once more, with a considerably gladder heart than when I had departed. As it turned out, the day of my return was well-timed, for I arrived at the quayside having had barely sufficient time to gather my belongings from my hotel room. I tumbled aboard the Diomedes only moments before she pushed off.
As soon as I had stowed my gear, I got to the deck in time to see Table Mountain shrinking into the misty distance and I
turned my gaze towards the Indian Ocean, which was now spread majestically before me. Ignoring the shaking heads and the Greek mutterings of the crew as they contemplated the âeccentric Englishman', I remained on deck until the crimson sun had melted into the vast expanse of sea that lay between me and the culmination of my quest.
I was on my way to Calcutta!
Although the letter was by no means near completion, I felt that this was an appropriate juncture to remind my companions that the clock had just announced midnight. Holmes nodded his assent and poured out three cognacs as Collier temporarily folded away his father's epic letter once again.
‘G
entlemen,’ cried Collier, suddenly jumping up from his chair and still holding his glass of cognac. ‘I owe you both a thousand apologies for having occupied so much of your time with my concerns.’
Holmes dismissed these regrets with a wave of his hand and a shake of his head. ‘Finish your drink and calm yourself, Mr Collier. Dr Watson and myself have both been known to keep the most bohemian of hours, from time to time,’ Holmes assured him.
‘Is there someone awaiting you who may be concerned at your continued absence?’ I asked.
‘No, not at all.’ Collier shook his head, as if ashamed at this admission.
‘In that case, should you have no obvious objections, it might be best if you were to remain here overnight,’ I suggested.
‘Watson! I was on the point of proposing the very same thing,’ Holmes exclaimed.
‘I could not possibly so impose myself,’ Collier protested.
‘Nonsense. I shall instruct Mrs Hudson to make up my bed for you, and I shall spend the night in here. I shall not brook any further protest. I have spent more nights in my chair than you might reasonably imagine.’
So the matter was settled and as I began climbing the stairs up
towards my room, I looked back to see Holmes settling into his favourite chair with an ashtray and a supply of tobacco and vestas by his side.
It was no surprise, to me at any rate, to find Holmes already dressed and fresher than we were as I came down for breakfast on the following morning. He was already at his usual breakfast of coffee and cigarettes, by the time Collier and I finally emerged.
‘Bohemian hours indeed!’ Holmes laughed as he tossed a
half-smoked
cigarette into his coffee cup. ‘I trust that you will take some of Mrs Hudson’s more than adequate breakfast before continuing with your father’s remarkable tale.’
Collier nodded his assent and made short work of his grilled kipper and eggs, a meal which I also heartily enjoyed. Holmes viewed us both with some amusement as he lit another cigarette.
As he wiped his plate clean Collier glanced somewhat sheepishly towards Holmes, obviously aware of Holmes’s empty plate and untouched cutlery.
‘Will you not be joining us, Mr Holmes?’
To save Holmes from the tiresome task of explaining himself I offered an explanation of my own.
‘When Mr Holmes is engrossed in a case, especially one as unusual as yours, he finds that the energy expended in the digestive process could be better used in maintaining the sharpness of his mental faculties. Do not let his abstinence detract from your own enjoyment of the meal, for I assure you that Holmes’s appetite will return upon the successful conclusion of the matter.’
Holmes clapped his hands together gleefully.
‘Well done, Watson!’ he exclaimed. ‘I could not have expressed the thing better myself. However, engrossing as Mr Collier’s letters undoubtedly are, we must not neglect the other matter that has so recently been brought to our attention. I am certain that Lestrade is already being cajoled by the odious Mr Dodd into replacing our services with those of another agency. So, with that
in mind, would you stroll to the vendors to procure a copy of
The Times
while I provide Lestrade with a suggestion or two and dispatch Mrs Hudson with a couple of wires that may prove to be significant?’
‘Of course, the
Matilda Briggs
affair!’ I must admit that the enthralling nature of Sir Michael Collier’s tale had occluded any thought of the mysterious ship and our unpleasant client. However, as I went to fetch my coat and carry out Holmes’s instruction, the memories of the previous afternoon at the quayside and at the office of the Red Cannon shipping line came flooding back to me. I craved Collier’s indulgence and made for the door as Holmes began scribbling out his notes.
The light mist that I had observed the previous day as it had spread itself lazily across the Thames had thickened substantially overnight. As it merged with the constant discharge from the forest of chimneys that surrounded us, it had transformed into this monstrous, swirling, grey pre-souper that appeared to swallow up all that was in its path.
Even the ‘Empty House’, that had once been the scene of one of Holmes’s investigations and stood opposite to our own lodging became nothing more than a ghostly apparition and any foolhardy passers-by stole along like so many crouching shadows. I turned up my coat collar and pulled down my hat as I continued upon my mission.
As soon as I had stepped out on to the street I was engulfed by the swirling gloom. Indeed, as I made my way towards the corner with Marylebone Road, I missed my footing several times. I reached the stand of Simon, my usual vendor, without any further mishap and the scarcity of customers that morning prompted me to slip him a few extra loose coins to cheer his gloomy countenance. I was on the point of turning for home with my paper under my arm, when the first rays of sunlight began to dissipate the edges of the mustard-tinged fog. I therefore decided to extend
my walk, and to while away the time that Holmes would need to put his plans into motion by stretching my stiff legs.
After a hundred yards or so, I decided that I could not trust Holmes’s impatient nature for a moment longer; as there was a real possibility he would ask Collier to continue with his reading in my absence. I turned around sharply at the thought and beat a hasty retreat towards 221B. When I reached the crossroads, however, my attention was drawn towards the opposite corner, for there stood, without a doubt, the very caped figure that had so perplexed me in Pepys Street the previous afternoon!
I stood there rubbing my eyes in disbelief and on this occasion I decided to make after the fellow. My previous vision of the man was so fleeting that I had been unsure of what I had witnessed and, consequently, I could not even bring myself to mention it to Holmes. The traffic was infrequent and so, despite my aching leg, I sprinted over to the opposite corner with the intention of confronting our stalker.
I am not normally prone to flights of fancy, but I could swear that this phantom had vanished into thin air by the time that I had reached the corner where the figure had stood but a moment before. I turned round in a circle and ran this way and that, but all to no avail. Despite all of my best efforts and the improved visibility created by the ever strengthening sun, I was forced to concede that the strange apparition was nowhere to be seen!
Eventually I gave up my search and returned to 221B, determined that this second sighting was certainly no mere illusion. I was entirely convinced that the phantom’s appearance at two supposedly random locations was by no means coincidence, and I immediately lengthened my stride towards home.
In my excitement I took our stairs two at a time, yet, to my surprise, I was greeted by Holmes at the door to our rooms. He held a cautionary finger before his lips, thereby beseeching me to silence.
‘Watson,’ Holmes whispered, ‘if you have any important news to impart to me, please do so at a later time.’ He crooked a discreet finger in the direction of two familiar figures that were seated by the fire.
Sure enough, there was Inspector Lestrade, perched uncomfortably on the edge of his seat with anxiety etched indelibly into his ferret-like features, sitting next to Mr Alistair Dodd, who appeared to be as pompous and pugnacious as he had been on board the
Matilda Briggs
the previous afternoon. They both halfrose by way of a greeting and I nodded briefly in return.
‘Good day to you Doctor … er.’ Dodd began.
‘Watson!!’ I snapped, still feeling frustrated at having to suppress the recounting of my news.
Holmes moved over to the fireplace and began fumbling for some tobacco from the Persian slipper, while young Collier sat patiently in the corner, evidently ready to resume reading from his father’s letter. Once Holmes had replaced his lit pipe on the mantel he turned around fiercely to face our guests. With his hands on his hips, a stance that splayed out both vents of his long, black
frock-coat
most menacingly, he glowered down at them.
‘Gentlemen, to what do we owe the dubious pleasure of your company this morning?’ Holmes asked of them.
Lestrade merely stammered nervously and it was left to Dodd to state the reason for their visit.
‘To be frank then, Mr Holmes, against my better judgement and advice my clients have nonetheless decided that you are the best man to carry out the investigation into the
Matilda Briggs
tragedy on their behalf. I was not at all impressed by your cavalier attitude on board the ship yesterday and your apparent indifference to the seriousness of the situation does not recommend you to me, either.’
‘Mr Dodd, I am hardly likely to be apathetic towards a case that promises to be every bit as stimulating as any that have come my way of late,’ Holmes disdainfully retorted.
‘That is as maybe; however we did not bring this matter before you merely to provide you with some stimulation. We require results and we expect them with as little fuss and within the shortest time as is practicable. Who might this person be?’ Dodd asked as he gestured towards Daniel Collier. ‘I trust that he is not another client and one who might further distract you from your work.’
‘This person just happens to be the son of the renowned explorer and historian, Sir Michael Collier. He is also an old friend of my family,’ I indignantly responded.
‘Bravo, Watson,’ I heard Holmes murmur under his breath. ‘Mr Dodd,’ Holmes continued in a somewhat louder tone, ‘the only person here distracting me from my work is yourself! I have already dispatched two suggestions for the good Inspector’s attention and I hope to have a response to a wire within the next forty-eight hours. Now, I do not intend to take up any more of your valuable time, in the same way that I am certain that you do not wish to waste any more of mine!’
With that Holmes turned once more to his pipe and indicated with a gesture that our uninvited guests should make their way to the door without delay. Dodd was on the point of making a further remark, but evidently thought better of the idea. With Lestrade in tow and his face reddened with indignation, Alistair Dodd finally took his leave.
Holmes slapped his hand on the mantel triumphantly and began laughing uproariously.
‘Well I never! I fear that if that man’s face had turned any redder it would have been in grave danger of exploding. Now, Mr Collier,’ Holmes calmed himself with a deep breath or two, ‘with a thousand apologies for that unseemly interruption, I would beseech you to continue reading from your father’s extraordinary letter.’
‘I shall by all means, Mr Holmes, but I should not wish to
divert you from what appears to be a matter of the greatest moment,’ Collier replied.
‘My dear fellow, do not be dismayed at Mr Dodd’s discourteous conduct. Singular though the
Matilda Briggs
affair undoubtedly is, we have already travelled too far with your father to be put off at this stage,’ I said encouragingly.
Collier smiled appreciatively as he lit another of his cheroots and looked to Holmes for confirmation. Holmes smiled and nodded his assent while the young archaeologist took up those crumpled sheets once more.
Mercifully, the second leg of our journey was blessed with somewhat less uncomfortable conditions than those that had blighted and almost destroyed the first. We appeared to be skimming rather than cutting through the still shimmering surface of the azure sea, yet even so the constant westerly moved us along at a most favourable rate of knots.
We then sailed across the Bay of Bengal and approached Calcutta through the broad and spectacular expanse of the Ganges delta. By the time we had completed the triangle of Colombo, Madras and Calcutta I had been aboard for the best part of one hundred days and I bade the captain and crew of the Diomedes a heartfelt farewell as we all disembarked. When I was halfway down the pier I slowly turned around and viewed the brave, battered hulk that had been my home for so long, with a strange nostalgic fondness. As I turned towards shore once more, I was most grateful to find that a friendly and familiar face was there to greet me.
I am certain that I have previously mentioned to you my guide to the Islamic traditions of India, a devout and most resolute fellow who goes by the name of Mohamed Abdi Mohamed. I could not help but smile as he waved his greeting, for he reminded me of the sun in a human incarnation.
Mohamed was attired in a long, white, gold-edged robe, which was also draped over his head. However, it was his face that was the most striking aspect of his appearance. His neat, tightly curled beard had noticeably whitened since I had last seen him and it encircled the broad expanse of his warm, welcoming smile. Evidently the letter which I had dispatched from the Cape, had reached him safely and had found him available and willing to guide me once again.
He saluted me as his brother and immediately took hold of my baggage as he led me to his family home, which proved to be a short walk from the quayside. The dwelling that he led me to was a small though comfortable, white-walled, square, two-storey building, which was festooned in brightly decorated, hand-made rugs and drapes.
The warmth and hospitality that was shown towards me, a man who was, to all present save for Mohamed, nothing more than a stranger (and an infidel to boot), was overwhelming. Therefore, by the time that I eventually stretched out upon the mat that was made available to me, on the cooling roof-top veranda, I was both full and satisfied.
I am certain that I would have remained asleep until well into the afternoon had it not been for the penetrating call to prayer that resonated from each of the surrounding minarets, which immediately aroused Mohamed and his family. The enthusiasm with which they went about their preparations to depart for the nearest mosque was truly inspiring and I was left in little doubt of their sincerity and devotion.
In their absence I was left to my own devices and as I set out to explore the surrounding neighbourhood I was immediately struck by the levels of poverty and squalor to which the majority of the people were being subjected.
There was little doubt in my mind that the streets I was now walking through were, indeed, the fields wherein the seeds of
discontent and revolt against the British Raj were being sown. I decided that much credence should be given to the rumours that were filtering back to Britain; rumours that told of extremists being mobilized under the banner of the Ghadar movement and that dark days, comparable with those of the Indian mutiny were fast approaching once again.
To make matters worse, one of their leaders, Bal Gangadhar Tilak from Maharashfa, had evoked the Hindu Gods Ganesh and Shivaji and he was using their name to rally revolutionists to his banner. Obviously this had led to the British forces being placed on high alert and the tension was now all encompassing. Furthermore, the object of my quest, being of Hindu origin, now took on an altogether more sensitive nature and my journey and enquiries would have to be far more discreet than I had at first allowed for.
I decided to return to Mohamed’s home with all speed and immediately unpacked my notes and maps. My intention was to persuade Mohamed to depart with me to Delhi at the earliest practical moment, in the hope that my journey could be concluded before travel restrictions were imposed by the authorities.
Fortunately Mohamed was more than willing and able to comply with my plans and, on the following morning, I went to the station to make the arrangements for the earliest possible departure. Mohamed ensured that there would be sufficient time for him to visit the mosque for one last time before agreeing to such an early train, and we returned home to break the news to his family.
As we arrived at the station I was immediately struck by an all-pervading military presence. The threat of revolt was suspended above the heads of every race, creed and caste throughout the land and nowhere was it more in evidence than within that vestibule of heaving human masses. Our platform
alone swarmed with hundreds of would-be passengers and we had serious misgivings of even being able to reach our berth, much less the train departing on time!
Once we had forced our way into a carriage we found that the conditions aboard that veritable sweat-box were intolerable and that the validity of our first class tickets was as nothing. The fourth-class passengers, who would, under normal circumstances, have been condemned to travelling on the train’s roof, were now displaced by a line of protective riflemen on top of each car.
By the time we had passed through Bengal and reached Parna, to take on water, every person on board was thoroughly exhausted and used this time in taking refreshing walks around the station perimeter. Mohamed and I lost little time in taking this welcome opportunity and observed that the only people not sharing this relief were the rooftop soldiers.
Then we pressed on through Pudh and the North Western Provinces, where the terrain took on an altogether more striking aspect and our overburdened train suddenly appeared to be quite inadequate and precarious. Every ravine crossing became a most perilous undertaking as the raging torrents growled menacingly beneath us.
More worrying, however, was the increasingly visible presence, on the surrounding hillsides, of Afghan horsemen, who brandished their swords and let up a constant hollering in a most menacing manner. On one occasion the side of the train was lightly peppered by a sporadic volley of Afghan bullets. However, our rooftop cordon of khaki-clad guardians possessed far greater firepower than our would-be assailants, who soon sought the higher ground. Apart from a stray bullet grazing the forehead of an engineer, this threat never became anything more than that and we were able to reach Delhi unscathed.
Such was the size and extent of Mohamed’s family that it was
no great surprise to find that a first cousin of his lived no more than twenty minutes’ walk away from the station.
I can assure you, my dear boy, that only sheer exhaustion had brought about any sleep that night, for I knew that I was now only a short walk away from the culmination of my quest, the bewildering, ancient mosque of Quwwatu’l-Islam Masjid. Fortunately it is also often referred to as the ’Friday Mosque’ which will make it far easier for me to refer to!
The poisonous atmosphere of hatred and mistrust that infused the relationships between Moslem, Hindu and Raj rendered my presence at the mosque a potential cause of unrest. Therefore Mohamed decided that it would be wisest if I were to retain the Jilab that he had loaned me for the train journey, and that we two pose as pilgrims intent at worshipping at the Friday Mosque.
As we approached this remarkable edifice, early on the following morning, my first instinct was to begin my examination of the mysterious motifs and inscriptions, with which it was so copiously adorned, without a moment’s delay. However, that would not have been the behaviour of a devout pilgrim and so, for now, I suppressed my scholarly enthusiasm by following Mohamed’s lead.
He had lent me a prayer mat for this purpose and, once we had spread these out before us, I emulated each and every one of Mohamed’s sounds and movements. I ensured, all the while, that my long and unruly flaxen hair and beard remained fully covered, for a sight of these would surely have discredited my guise. Once the morning prayers had been concluded we rolled up the mats once more and Mohamed passed me a gourd of cool refreshing water, for the sun had become most piercing.
Then Mohamed took up a position on the ridge of a small nearby hill, from where he could best warn me of the first signs of unrest or disturbance. He then left me to my own devices and
I attempted to pursue my examinations in as pious a manner as I could manage. I assure you, dear boy, that this was no easy task!
For me to say that the Friday Mosque was an astounding piece of architecture would be to serve its creators no true justice. Thankfully, only Mohamed was aware of my childlike gaping as I gazed up at each new wonder. However, it was only when I began to examine the mosque’s pillars that I could confirm that every piece of stone and masonry had been pillaged from the twenty-seven Hindu temples of Qila Rai Pithora, as the pre-Islamic, Hindu motifs attested.
This fact had been recorded by the builder of the mosque, Qutub-ud-Din Aibak, in his beautifully fashioned Islamic inscriptions. However the present religious tensions and my sense of political discretion precluded me from voicing this discovery, even, or perhaps especially, to Mohamed. The mystery of the place, however was the famed iron pillar, set in the centre of the courtyard.
That the mosque was, undoubtedly, constructed in the twelfth century and that the ‘iron’ pillar itself was identified by its Sanskrit inscription as having been constructed in the fourth century AD are facts that I have already recorded in the early part of my letter. The mystery does not end there, though, for I can now confirm that no other relic of the fourth century exists anywhere else on this extensive site and the pillar’s place of origin is unknown!
I approached this elegantly tapered creation with understandable reverence. It stood at well over twenty feet in height, with a further three feet embedded below its wrought-iron knobbly foundations. Although this section is showing minimal signs of deterioration it is, nonetheless, a sobering thought to consider that those ancient Indian metallurgists were producing an indestructible, pure malleable iron, at a time in history when their modern day rulers were living in mud huts and painting their bodies in blue!
My examination of the inscriptions around its circumference confirmed its builder as being Chandragupta II, and also showed that an empty hole at the pillar’s fine peak, told of a missing artefact, the discovery of which could, potentially, have far-reaching political significance. I decided, there and then, that it was my duty to trace this artefact’s whereabouts and to prevent it from falling into dangerous hands.
Regretfully, I soon realized that the longer I continued with my examination the more likely it was that I would soon attract some unwanted attention. However, when I looked up at the hilltop, from where Mohamed was supposed to have been keeping watch, to my horror there was no sign of my friend! At once I abandoned the pillar and looked about me in every direction to see if my guide and sentinel was anywhere to be found. Under the circumstances, I walked as calmly and unobtrusively as I could, until I had reached the summit of Mohamed’s hill.
I was on the point of despair when a familiar, full, booming laugh echoed from behind me. Mohamed was evidently amused by the look of anxiety on my face, as nothing more sinister had happened to him than the call to prayer. He waved his prayer mat above his head by way of explanation, and advised me to return with him to his cousin’s house without delay. This was advice that
I followed without any hesitation, for I decided that I was becoming a dangerous companion for Mohamed to be seen with. The following morning Mohamed returned to Calcutta and we bade each other what would, in all probability, be our final farewell. Once I was assured that he had safely made his train, I set about putting my own plans into action. The return journey to Calcutta was now too long and risky for me to undertake and an examination of my maps showed that the significantly shorter land journey to the Bay of Cambay could prove to be a far safer option.
It was now my intention to discover the whereabouts of the very same Sadhu who had set me upon my quest to the ‘iron’
pillar in the first place. He had last been heard of living in a cave just outside a small village near Madras, which was certainly reachable by sea from Cambay. Therefore, the way ahead for me was clear.
As it happened I was able to find the Sadhu, Kiran Mistry, with considerably less difficulty than I had at first expected. His name and reputation had spread wide from his hilltop cave, and the streets of Madras were positively ringing with his name. Finding him and gaining access to his presence proved to be two entirely different propositions, however, and I was forced to wait a full forty-eight hours before he was able to beckon me to his side.
That he was a devotee of Shiva was identified by his entire body being caked in a dry crust of grey ash. He sat in the middle of a small circle of his disciples. His frail body was weighed down by countless rosary-bead strands that rattled resonantly with his every movement. Mistry and his disciples were passing round a large cigar, which, I subsequently discovered, was rolled from charas, more commonly known by its Arabic name of hashish, a plant from Nepal that apparently aided the Sadhu’s spiritual and mental clarity when it was smoked. I must confess that the effect that it had on me was quite the opposite and my entire experience was overwhelming.
Once we were alone I was able to speak to him, at some length, of my life since our last meeting and for the first time I found that I could discuss the loss of your dear mother without feeling pain. He smiled fondly upon me when I told him of this and before long we were discussing the reason behind my being in Madras. To my astonishment the Sadhu knew precisely of the artefact I was seeking, although he would not have approved of the political significance that I had attached to it.
Mistry spoke of an elegantly curved ceremonial blade, known as a beladau, which, to his knowledge, was the only object in existence to have been crafted from the same ‘iron’ as had been
the pillar of Delhi. Mistry, of course, spoke of its spiritual value and significance whereas its political significance seemed to be of the utmost importance.