The Lost Radio Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (14 page)

“I seek the
opportunity to bring both God and health to your Tibetan people.”

“And you, Mr.
Sigerson?”

“I seek to chart
the true course of your mountains; and so to bring knowledge to the world.”

“And you, Feodor
Borodin?”

“I seek to bring
about complete understanding between the great peoples of Tibet and Russia. If
I succeed, the Tsar and his family may consider turning to Buddhism.”

“Indeed?” smiled
the abbot incredulously, then turned to the last of the group, “and you, Sir
Harvey, as representative of the British government, what do you seek?”

“I shall not
join in this contest of wishful thinking,” he said mockingly. “I merely remind
you, sir, that your government has signed a treaty with mine!”

“And was not
that treaty forced upon us by our Chinese overlords? No my children, you have
advanced brave reasons, but I cannot help remembering that the streams of Tibet
bear gold nuggets the size of hazelnuts. You foreigners in your pitiful
ignorance esteem gold . . . .”

Suddenly, a
large gong interrupted the abbot as its sound filled the vast halls of the
monastery.

“That signals
the arrival of Wah-tzun, the Chinese emissary. Your problems will soon be
settled, my children. I will acquaint him with your requests.”

The abbot bowed
deeply and hurriedly left to meet up with Wah-tzun. As the rest of the
companions mumbled to each other in frustration, Holmes laughed gently under
his breath, a large smile crossing his face.

“Why are you
smiling, Mr. Holmes?” said Miss Farley.

“I’m smiling,
young lady, at the name of the Chinese overlord, Wah-tzun. I must avoid falling
into old habits and saying ‘Elementary, my dear Wah-tzun.’ ”

In a moment the
Chinese overlord entered the room, robed in elegant clothes, bedecked with gold
and jewels.

“Silence!
Silence! The abbot has told me your wishes. I have made my decision. American
lady and Norwegian will not be allowed. Only Great Britain and Russia have
treaties with my country.”

“I insist that I
have prior right over the Russian representative,” demanded Sir Harvey. The
Russian stepped forward, his great bulk pushing Sir Harvey aside.

“How dare you! I
represent the Tsar! And Russia is your neighbor. I demand my diplomatic
privilege!”

The overlord
looked at the two men standing before him, their fists clenched, ready to do
battle.

“Follow me. I
will decide these things, not you!”

The overlord
turned and walked away, the two men following as they ranted at each other,
demanding their rights brought about by their respective treaties with China.
Holmes and Miss Farley watched until the great oak doors at the end of the room
closed tightly, leaving the two standing alone.

“Well, Mr.
Holmes, it looks as if you and I, at any rate, don’t get to Lhasa.”

“No,” said
Holmes, deep in thought.

“You look
worried. Does the journey to Lhasa mean so much to you?”

“It isn’t that.
I’m worried about the potential danger that hangs over this monastery. Violent
forces are at work.”

“What do you
mean, Mr. Holmes?”

“As you know,
Miss Farley, I’ve some specialized acquaintance with these matters, and I tell
you that I rarely see more clearly exemplified that emotional tension which
leads to one thing: Murder! That is what I am afraid of, young lady, murder!”

Holmes, of
course, was almost always right in his assumptions. He had an uncanny knack of
being able to quickly decipher the elements that lay beneath the surface of
various actions and deeds and piece them together with newfound conclusions of
the most accurate kind. So it was in this case. Later that day, as the sun was
setting over the mountaintop, sending its golden rays through the open windows
of the monastery, the old abbot walked slowly in the inner gardens, talking to
the man whom he thought was an Norwegian explorer.

“My dear Mr.
Sigerson, what can I do to help you? Our conversation has pleased me, and I can
see that you are a man of rare perception and knowledge, and one worthy to
enter Lhasa, but I can offer no hope. Mr. Wah has already rejected the
applications of both the Englishman and the Russian.”

“He did that?”
Holmes said in surprise.

“He did, my son.
He told me they were both very angry and they threatened him.”

“If anything
were to happen to the Chinese emissary, would you have the right to grant
permission for a journey to Lhasa?”

“Yes. Until the
new envoy arrives from Peking. But what are you suggesting, my son? This
monastery is a haven of peace, a backwater far from the troubled stream of
life. No violence has ever occurred here.”

“I hope it never
will, and yet . . . The Chinese envoy was frightened, you say, reverend sir?”

The old abbot
seated himself upon a stone bench in the last rays of the day’s sun. Holmes sat
beside him.

“Yes, he was
frightened, my son.”

“He has left the
monastery, of course?”

“No,” he
returned, shaking his head, “those who come here even for a short visit must
break bread with us, and sleep at least one night. Mr. Wah is quartered in the
cell you see before us.”

“Would you mind
if we call on him, reverend sir?”

“Of course not,
my son, though you will but waste your breath in talking to him. He will not
give you permission to take the road to Lhasa.”

Holmes helped
the old abbot to stand and they quietly walked over to the emissary’s room.
Holmes knocked on the door.

“He sleeps, my
son. Let us not disturb him.”

“If you don’t
mind, reverend sir, I must waken him. If he can be wakened.” Holmes knocked
again, and then again, louder each time.

“What can be
wrong?” said the abbot, the first signs of doubt crossing his face.

“I think I know,”
said Holmes, “I’m going in.”

Holmes pushed
the door in and the two men stepped inside. The emissary lay on his bed, his
eyes open, staring blankly at the ceiling above.

“There is your
answer, reverend sir.”

“He is dead?”
said the old man in disbelief.

“Yes sir.
Strangled with his own queue.”

“No,” said the
abbot, “the poor misguided man has taken his own life.”

“No sir, look at
those marks on his shoulder. He has been murdered.”

“Murdered? But
what are we to do?”

“As it happens,
reverend sir, I have had a certain amount of experience in my own country with
this kind of violence. If I were to produce the murderer for you, with absolute
proof of his guilt, would you authorize my going to Lhasa?”

“Yes. Since, for
a few days, that permission is now mine to give, I will grant it. You fill me
with a strange confidence, but how will you find this taker of life?”

“I cannot tell
you now, sir, but I shall find him! All that I require is a little assistance
from you, sir.”

“Of course, what
is it?”

“Let us both
leave the cell. Post a guard here and give him strict orders that no one is to
enter unless accompanied by me.”

“Very well. But,
my son, where are YOU going?”

“Before very
long, sir, I hope to be on my way to Lhasa.”

II

Holmes paused a
moment, deep in thought. Slowly, he lit his pipe and went to the window to gaze
down upon Baker Street and its busy people and passing hansoms. He turned to
me, a sad and forlorn look upon his face.

“All this,” he
said with a sweeping gesture, “and all that outside, Watson, is often quite
meaningless to me. When I crossed the Tibetan mountains, struggling to save my
life, I came to realize how insignificant we are in the scheme of things.
Nature does not care if we live or die, it goes on, regardless. When I awoke on
that cart, understanding that I had come close to death, I began to see things
differently. In the monastery, surrounded once again by people, I had meaning
again. And therein lies the power of nature, my dear friend, that in its
complete neutrality towards us, it allows us to see life as a gift or as a
hindrance. I see it as a gift. When I suspected the Chinese overlord was dead,
I knew I had to find the murderer, not just because it was a challenge to me,
or a way of stimulating my mind as other cases so often have done, but because
this tragedy would forever affect the monastery and the very essence of peace
and tranquility that resided there.”

As Holmes spoke
I continued to take notes, listening carefully to his every word.

Realizing that I
was not there to help him, Holmes decided to enlist the aid of Miss Farley, the
American girl. Immediately after he left the cell of the murdered man, he’d
gone to Miss Farley and told her of the tragedy. They quickly returned to the
scene of the crime, where Holmes saw that his instructions had been carried
out, and a guard was barring the entrance to the dead man’s cell.

“The abbot gave
you your orders?” Holmes said to the guard.

“Yes. You may go
in.”

They entered the
cell, Holmes gesturing for Miss Farley to close the door behind them.

“You’re sure
your nerves are up to this, Miss Farley? It’s not a pretty sight.”

“I’ve seen sudden
death before, Mr. Holmes. In any case, I wouldn’t dare feel frightened, I’m so
flattered that you asked me to help you.”

“You were the
only one who knew my true identity, that is why I suggested you take my old
friend’s place. You see, I need . . . what shall I say? . . . I need a sounding
board for my deductions. Wait, here, I’ll light a match.”

Holmes took a
candle from a table and lit it. The room was filled with light, revealing the
body of the overlord to Miss Farley. She gasped in horror and stepped back.
Holmes touched her shoulder to calm her.

“I warned you it
wasn’t a pretty sight. Hold the candle, will you please, Miss Farley.”

Holmes inspected
everything in sight in his usual manner.

“This isn’t hard
to re-construct. The killer stood behind his victim, holding him by the left
shoulder, so. Wound his queue around his neck and pulled back. Yes, the marks
are self evident. Hello, what’s this on the floor at his feet?”

“A cigarette,” said
Miss Farley, “dropped as it was burning, I should think. And now it’s nothing
but ash.”

“Exactly. Ash.
Now which of the visitors at the monastery smoke cigarettes?”

“Yourself, Mr.
Holmes, the Russian, and Sir Harvey, the Englishman.”

“I think we may
justifiably omit myself from the list of suspects,” added Holmes with a look of
chagrin, “so that narrows it down to two. Look here, Miss Farley, there are
clear traces to the naked eye not only of tobacco ash and paper, but of
cardboard!”

“Cardboard? But
what docs that signify, Mr. Holmes?”

“That the case
is nearly solved! Come on, young lady, we must pay a visit to Borodin’s cell at
once!”

Holmes,
accompanied by Miss Farley, hurried to the quarters of Feodor Borodin, where
they found both Borodin and Sir Harvey Forrester arguing. Both men turned as
Holmes entered.

“Ha! Mr.
Sigerson, can you believe that Sir Harvey can do nothing but argue with me all
the time. It is disgraceful. Come in, both of you. We will drink vodka and I
will sing songs from our Mother Russia for you. Anything will be better than
arguing with Sir Harvey!”

“We have not
come here to listen to songs, Feodor Borodin,” said Miss Farley in disgust. “The
Chinese envoy was murdered tonight!”

“Yes, yes, so we
have been told, my dear. Sir Harvey and I are very happy because of his death,
are we not?”

“Well, I won’t
pretend I’m not,” said Sir Harvey, raising a glass of vodka to his lips.

“Feodor Borodin,”
Holmes said, “you were in the cell at the time of the murder!”

Borodin turned
towards Holmes, his face suddenly becoming a mask of rage.

“That is a lie,
Norwegian!”

“I can prove it.
In that cell I have just found ashes, totally burned cigarette ashes that
included fragments of cardboard. Only a Russian cigarette has a cardboard
mouthpiece.”

“He’s very
obstinate tonight, Sigerson. We’ve just been having a political argument.
Couldn’t agree on a single point, except on the dangers of the common man. He
was telling me of the most extraordinary revolution on his estates. Do you know
they chopped off one of his hands?”

Holmes was
surprised, looking quickly at Borodin’s hands.

“Your hand,
Borodin, quickly, which one is missing?”

“As God is
merciful, it was my left hand.”

“Then what is
that hand beneath your glove?” asked Holmes.

“Is made of wax,
my good Norwegian, is made of wax. Come, see for yourself.”