The Lost Radio Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (15 page)

Borodin carefully
removed his glove, revealing a hand made of bees wax that was tightly bound to
his wrist.

“Extraordinary!”
exclaimed Sir Harvey.

“It is more than
that. It is conclusive proof!”

“What do you
mean, Mr. Sigerson?” Miss Farley asked in confusion.

“I cannot tell
you now. I must leave for the moment. Let me warn you: The three of you would
be well advised to keep an eye on each other! Meanwhile, I must see the abbot.”

“But why?”
implored Miss Farley.

“Because now I
know who murdered Wah-tzun!”

Before the full
impact of what he had implied could be comprehended by the three suspects,
Holmes was gone, leaving them to their own devices. Through the open door a
thin mist was edging its way into the room, slowly encompassing the three
people who stood there. Feodor Borodin was again taking long drinks of vodka as
he eyed the other two. Sir Harvey Forrester sat back in a chair, resigned and
waiting for the final verdict. Miss Farley stood, her hands at her chest,
shivering, frightened and unable to move.

It was done. As
Holmes sat at the foot of the abbot, the sounds of chanting could be heard not
so far away in the sacred temple. The abbot looked toward the mountain as the
mist began to slowly dissolve with the coming of the sun. He turned to Holmes
and, smiling, placed his ancient hand upon my friend’s shoulder.

“The pink
fingers of dawn are stealing across the mountain top, my son. Soon, you will be
on your way to Lhasa.”

“Yes, reverend
sir, you have kept your promise,” Holmes said in a voice so soft and gentle it
was almost a whisper.

“And you have
kept your promise, Mr. Sigerson. The Chinese soldiers have arrived, and the
taker of life has been given into their custody. Before you leave, my son, I
want you to do something for me.”

“Anything,
reverend sir, what is it?”

“The hooded
figure in the corner is that of the monastery scribe. He keeps our annals. I
want you to explain, for our records, how you knew which one of the three was
the taker of life.”

“It was not
difficult, sir,” offered Holmes, “the killer had gripped Wah-tzun’s shoulder
with the left hand while his right was used to strangle him. Therefore the
Russian Borodin could not be the killer since his left hand was artificial.”

“Quite so, it
was as you told me made of wax. Then—”

“But the clue,
reverend sir, of the cigarette pointed directly to the Russian. It had been
planted there to deliberately incriminate him. Now, there is no plain police
force in Tibet, am I correct?”

“We need no
police for there is no crime here, my son. But do continue.”

“Why should the
cigarette be planted to incriminate the Russian? Who could arrest him? Who
could bring the Russian to justice? Unless the murderer knew there was someone
capable of making the deduction that the Russian was guilty, all from a handful
of cigarette ash. Therefore, the murderer had to be the one person who knew my
true identity. Miss Ilene Farley, the supposed missionary.”

“Ah,” smiled the
abbot, “she was no missionary, as it transpired when she confessed. And no
American.”

“No. A secret
service agent of German origin, seeking to reach Lhasa before the Russians, and
infuriated by Wah-tzun’s denial of passage. Any secret service is better off
without such employees.”

“She will pay
for her mortal sin, my son. May she redeem herself in her next place on the wheel.”

The distant gong
from Lhasa sounded. The abbot looked down upon Holmes, a look of deep sadness
crossing his face.

“My son, you are
about to leave me, and I shall never see you again. Though evil and death came
to Pancha-pushpah, and to my monastery in the caravan that brought you here, I
shall miss you. I shall miss you, greatly.”

“And I you,
reverend sir,” said Holmes with the heaviest of hearts.

“Would you
consider staying here? I can only offer you peace, a shelter from the outside
world, and quiet companionship.”

“Ah, three great
gifts, sir. But I cannot take them. My work is not done. I must go on.”

“Of course, my
son. It was an old man’s dream. One last question.”

“What is it,
sir?”

“You spoke of
your true identity, just now. Who are you, my son?”

Holmes gazed
into the old abbot’s eyes and was deeply shaken by their calm and beauty.

“Reverend, sir,
I cannot tell even you the answer to that question. One day, if I pass this way
again, but not now. Let us just say that I have wandered through a world of
trouble, just as you have remained tranquil in a world of peace. I hope, sir,
that we shall meet again.”

“I hope so, too.
Goodbye, my son.”

“Goodbye,
reverend sir, good bye.”

Holmes rose, and
with great reluctance, bowed deeply to the abbot, who gave him his blessing. He
walked to the entrance of the monastery, the abbot watching him with eyes of
wisdom.

Holmes turned at
the entrance for one last look, managed a sad and weak smile, then turned back
towards Lhasa. He walked slowly up the rough trail towards Lhasa, knowing in
his heart that he had to move on in his quest for the inner knowledge he
yearned. In Lhasa he would find some of the answers that had plagued him
throughout the years of his life.

And, although he
would not reveal his deepest most inner feelings to me, I knew, as he sat
before me finishing this strange story, that my dear friend had, indeed, found
something of the inner peace we all seek. A better understanding of that
precious soul within all of us. The answers he came upon helped him make up his
mind to once again return to England and his life here in Baker Street. For
which, I must admit, I am most thankful.

Return to table of
contents

THIS
strange tale began on a cold winter morning in 1897 as Holmes and I had just
concluded our breakfast. We were seated on either side of a cheery fire in our
Baker Street lodgings. A thick fog had rolled down between the line of houses,
and the windows opposite loomed like dark shapeless eyes that stared at us
through the swirling yellow mist. It was what most people called a London pea
soup fog. Our gas was lit and threw its flickering light on the white
tablecloth and china, for the breakfast table had not been cleared. Holmes was
busy cross-indexing his records on crime while I was engrossed in one of Clark
Russell’s fine sea stories.

Our morning was
not destined, however, to be a quiet one, for shortly after 11 o’clock Mrs.
Hudson ushered a young lady into our rooms. A young lady who seemed to be in
serious trouble as she shakily seated herself opposite us, constantly pulling
at her handkerchief. I presented her with the usual courtesies on first
meeting.

“I’m Dr. Watson,
and this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

“How do you do,
gentlemen. I must apologize for not giving my name to your housekeeper, but I
have to be most careful. Of course, you’re wondering who I am, and what’s
brought me here.”

“My own theory,”
Holmes said, smiling kindly, “would be that you are Miss Harriet Irvin, and that
you have come to me to elicit my aid in proving that Mr. Binyon did NOT murder
your father.”

“Holmes,” I said
in astonishment, “what on earth are you talking about?”

“You are
absolutely correct, Mr. Holmes,” returned the young lady, “but, how did you know?”

As usual I sat
listening to Holmes again explain how, through deductive logic, he arrived at
his conclusions.

“You are wearing
very new and extremely expensive mourning clothes, presumably for the first
time, since a few basting threads are still in evidence. You wear no wedding
ring, so evidently you are not in mourning for a husband. The only man who’s
death the papers announced in the past few days, and who left a young daughter
wealthy enough to purchase such garments, is Sir Edward Irvin. And since the
police have already made an arrest, obviously you wish me to disprove the
police theory, and intercede for young Binyon.”

“Mr. Holmes, you’re
wonderful! That’s just what I want you to do. You will, won’t you?”

“Miss Irvin, I’ve
studied the newspaper reports very carefully. It would seem to me that Scotland
Yard has arrested the right man.”

“Well, I’m very
sorry,” I chimed in, “but I didn’t read the newspaper reports. I haven’t the
faintest idea of what you’re both talking about!”

“Then let me
bring you up to date, my dear Watson. And please correct me, Miss Irvin, if I
make any mistakes. Three days ago Sir Edward Irvin, the father of this young
lady, was found stabbed to death in his study. The only entrance to the study
is through an anteroom, where his secretary had been sitting ever since Sir
Edward was last seen alive. And the secretary swore that no one had entered or
left the study.”

“The secretary’s
name being Binyon, I suppose,” I added.

“Correct. Under
the circumstances, it’s hard to see that any other arrest was possible.”

“And yet I know
he’s innocent, Mr. Holmes.”

“How do you know
that, Miss Irvin?” I asked.

“We were in
love. We were going to be married. I don’t care what the police say; a woman
knows these things. Robert Binyon did not kill my father.”

“Did your father
approve of the engagement?” I continued.

“Well, no, not
exactly.”

“If one were to
be exact, Miss Irvin,” said Holmes, “wouldn’t one say that your father
absolutely forbade the marriage?”

“Yes, he did.”

“And Inspector
Lestrade, who took on the case, assumed that was the motive for the murder.”

Miss Irvin sat
nervously, pulling upon the handkerchief more fiercely than ever. Holmes smiled
and pointed to it.

“My dear Miss
Irvin, if you continue to pull at that poor thing much longer, you may tear it
to shreds. Please, do relax and allow me to continue my questioning.”

She took a deep
breath and sat back in the chair, trying to calm herself. Holmes went on.

“Does your
father have any other living relatives, Miss Irvin?”

“His brother, my
uncle Peregren. He lives a hermit’s life in the country. We’ve seen very little
of him in the last few years.”

“Was he left
anything under your father’s will?”

“No. I was the
sole beneficiary. Please help me, Mr. Holmes. If you’ll just talk to Robert, you’ll
know he’s not guilty.”

I turned to
Holmes, who seemed to be pondering the evidence so far presented.

“There’s no harm
in talking to him, Holmes. After all, our old friend Lestrade handled the case,
and he’s made a good many mistakes in the past, you know.”

“Haven’t we all,
old chap?” Holmes laughed. “Well, Miss Irvin, I’ll do what I can, but I promise
nothing.”

“Bless you, Mr.
Holmes.”

“Where is your fiancée
being held?”

“At Scotland
Yard. I talked to him there, just before I came to see you.”

“Scotland Yard,
eh?” said Holmes rising from his chair, “Splendid! We can talk to Lestrade at
the same time. Watson, your—”

“Hat and coat,
Holmes?” I said, interrupting my illustrious friend.

“Precisely, old
fellow. Your hat and coat.”

Holmes and I
ushered the lady downstairs while he again reassured her everything possible
would be done to help in this case. Once she was off in a Hansom, I hailed
another, which took us to Scotland Yard and the redoubtable Inspector Lestrade.

“So, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson,” said Lestrade as we sat before him, “think
they know more than the Yard, eh? Come over here to teach us our business, I
suppose?”

“Nothing of the
sort, Lestrade,” I said in irritation, “we came over here to make a few
inquiries.”

“I tell you,
gentlemen, that you’re wasting your time. Young Binyon is guilty, whatever his
young lady may say!”

Holmes lit a
cigar, as a look of mild irritation crossed his face.

“Lestrade, what
did the autopsy prove?”

“Just a moment,
I got a report of it here on my desk. It won’t tell you nothing you don’t know.”

He handed the
report to Holmes who carefully scanned its contents.

“It says here
death was instantaneous,” Holmes commented. “Caused by some weapon like a long
needle, a fine stiletto, or an ice pick, penetrating the brain at the base of
the skull.”

“And no such
weapon was found in the room,” added a cynical Lestrade.

“Or on Mr.
Binyon?”

“True, sir, but
then he had the chance of disposing of it!”

“Just the same,
Lestrade,” I added, “the murder weapon hasn’t been found, has it?”

“No, doctor, but
we’ll find it. Don’t you worry about that!”

“I should like
to talk to the prisoner, if you don’t mind.”

“Why, of course
I don’t mind, Mr. Holmes. He’s in the detention cell just down the corridor
from here. Follow me, gentlemen.”

Lestrade took us
down a dismal corridor towards a barred room at the end.

“Place could do
with a bit of paint,” I commented.

“What’s that,
doctor?”

“Nothing. Has
Binyon given you any trouble, Lestrade?”

“Trouble? Ha! If
all our prisoners were as quiet as him, we wouldn’t need no guards, doctor.
Nice, quiet young fella. Hard to realize he’s a murderer.”

“A fact that
still has to be proven in court, Lestrade.”

“A fact that is
going to be proved in court, Mr. Holmes.”

Lestrade took
out some keys and unlocked the cell door. Seated on a stool at the far end of
the room was a young man, thin and pale and slight of build.

“You’ve got
visitors, Mr. Binyon, very distinguished visitors. Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr.
John H. Watson.”

“I’m sorry to
see you in this plight, Mr. Binyon,” I said.

“Mr. Sherlock
Holmes!” he said, rising from the stool, “then Harriet did go to see you when
she left here. I’m so glad. You’ll get me out of this mess, I know you will.”

“Even Mr.
Sherlock Holmes can’t get you out of this one, young fellow me lad.”

“Mr. Binyon,” said
Holmes, ignoring Lestrade’s remark, “I promised your fiancée that I’d try and
help you. My obvious course is to go to Sir Edward’s house and examine the room
in which the tragedy occurred, but before I do that, I’d like to ask you a
question or two.”

“Ask me any
question you want to, sir.”

“It was you who
discovered the body, I understand. Please describe the circumstances.”

Holmes and I
seated ourselves on the not so comfortable bunk opposite young Binyon, while
Lestrade stood by the barred door.

“Sir Edward was
in his study, while I had been working in the anteroom adjoining,” young Binyon
revealed. “At five o’clock I went in to say goodnight to him, and I found him
slumped in his chair with blood streaming down the back of his head. Of course
I sent the butler for the police at once.”

“Could anyone
have entered that room without your knowledge?”

“No, Mr. Holmes,
I never left my desk. And there was no other entrance to the room save through
my office.”

“How about the windows
in Sir Edward’s room?” I asked.

“They were
locked from the inside, doctor.”

“You don’t need
to worry. We examined the window ledges. Not a mark. No one came in that way!”
added Lestrade.

“What is your
theory of the murder, Mr. Binyon?”

“I haven’t one,
Mr. Holmes. I’m completely baffled. I’m certain no one entered that room, yet I
swear to you that I didn’t stab him, though I can understand the police
believing I did.”

Holmes took a
deep puff on his newly lit cigar, then stood up, gesturing for me to follow
suit.

“Lestrade, I
should like to examine the room in which Sir Edward was murdered.”

“Easiest thing
in the world, Mr. Holmes. I’ll accompany you, if you like. His house is in
Knightsbridge. I’d like very much to come with you.”

“Why, Lestrade?”
said Holmes, a sly smile on his face. “You’re convinced that Mr. Binyon is
guilty, aren’t you? Won’t you be wasting your time?”

“Not me,” Lestrade
said in triumph. “For once I know you’re on the wrong side of the case, Mr.
Holmes. And I want to be there and see your face when you find it out!”

“I thought as
much,” said Holmes in low tones.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing,
Lestrade. Shall we go?”

We bid farewell
to young Binyon and caught a four-wheeler which dropped us off in front of the
Irvin residence. It was an imposing structure, that of a wealthy man who had
spent much money and great pride on his dwelling.

“I imagine,
Lestrade, that you still have a police guard inside?”

“Oh yes, doctor,”
he replied, knocking on the door, “there’s been a sergeant guarding the dead
man’s room day and night. However, we still haven’t found the missing weapon,
you know.”

The door opened
to reveal a rather imposing and tall butler. He looked at the three of us
rather coldly.

“Yes, gentlemen?”

“I’m Inspector
Lestrade of Scotland Yard. We wish to examine the house.”

“I must see your
identification, sir.”

“What are you
talking about? I been in and out of this house half a dozen times!”

“I have my
orders, sir.”

I could see that
Holmes was chuckling to himself. I found myself doing the same.

Reluctantly
Lestrade showed his identification.

“Is Miss Irvin
at home?” asked Holmes.

“Miss Irvin is
NOT receiving, sir.”

“Great Scott,
man,” I said in frustration, “can’t you give us any information?”

“There’s been
tragedy in this house, sir, and the truth of it’s not known yet. I’m not
answering any questions that I don’t have to!”

“Stout fellow!”
said Holmes with a smile. “Now, may we come in?”

The butler let
us in rather reluctantly.

“May I direct
you, gentlemen?”

“No thank you. I
know this house nearly as well as you do!”

“I think not,
inspector. I’ve served here for 27 years! Now, gentlemen, if you are not
needing me, I’ll return to my quarters!”

As Lestrade led
the way to the dead man’s room, I turned to Holmes.

“Bless my soul,
that’s a sinister looking chap if I ever saw one!”